Zhalia

I fall to my knees in front of the raging fireball that was once the Yellow Mansions. The blue-white flames are searing hot, and too bright to look at, but I feel their furious heat on my face, and I know nothing can possibly be left standing in the stately grounds that, just a few minutes ago, my teammates had been scouting out. My teammates... Eliza, Domovoi, Julius... all gone. My mind throws up hideous pictures of their last moments, charred, blackened bodies in the terrible fire. Tears come to my eyes, hot and stinging. "No... no. They can't be gone." I hear my own sobbing, my own disbelieving voice almost a whisper. The horrible images, the stinging regrets, are bouncing around and making it almost impossible for me to think. All I can do is cry.

A sudden sharp shove at my shoulder forces my head up. I see a half-familiar face above me, swimming in the smoke. Its mouth is moving, but I hear nothing above the roar of the fire. It swirls in and out of focus. I stare blankly for a few seconds, before the face twists into an exasperated expression. Firm hands grasp my arm and pull me away from the scene, into the safety of a tree a few metres away. The glare of the burning mansion is still burnt into my vision, the imagined cries of my lost friends echoing in my ears, but now, away from the direct line of the flames, and in the shade of a tall oak, I feel my senses returning. The voice of the hazy, familiar face is becoming clearer, and I begin to comprehend the words.

"Don't cry." I slowly recognize the voice as Richard. The last member of my team, a surly, tough eighteen-year-old. The one I'd never really gotten along with. He's looking at me now, his back against the tree trunk, undisguised hostility in his fierce tawny eyes. "Th-They're gone..." I choke out. The tears are starting up again, against my will. I feel like the weak, sentimental, inept rookie that I am. My first mission, and I can't even control my emotions. But even worse, I'd gotten attached to the people I was supposed to be bringing down.

Richard lets out a bitter bark of hard laughter. "Yeah, they sure are. Do you spies always cry this hard when your mission succeeds?" His words take a while to register, but when they do, I feel a painful contraction in my chest. "What... What did you say?" Richard looks straight at me, anger mixed with cynical amusement in his gaze. "You're a spy for Napcon. Don't bother denying it. We all knew." I gasp, despite myself. "How?" I ask. He shrugs. "Listen, kid. Me and Domovoi, we've been in this business a long time. It's an insult, really, Napcon assigning a rookie spy to our group. We saw it right away. Julius and Eliza wouldn't believe it at first. Your little performance in the Connors incident was more than enough to convince them, though." His mouth distorts into a twisted little smile. "You really are new, aren't you?"

I feel my face flush. "But if you knew I was a spy..."

"Why didn't we finish you off? It was Julius. He thought you, being new and innocent and whatnot, could be turned to our side. This Yellow Mansions mission was going to be your test. If we made it through, and you still didn't call Napcon down on us, he'd talk to you, try to convince you. He persuaded Eliza and Domovoi that you were okay. Lot of good that did him." Richard's voice turns harsh.

It made sense. Richard and Domovoi had experience, but Julius was the captain on this mission. He trusted me? Richard was right. A lot of good that did him. I was mad at myself, ashamed of what I'd done, shocked at the extent Napcon had gone to, horrified at the loss of my friends... My friends? I sniffed desperately, trying to stop the tears. But Richard saw them. "I said, stop crying!"  his expression is suddenly a mask of pain and anger. "What right have you to cry? You tried to kill them! You never loved them. No, you didn't. You never loved them, so DON'T YOU DARE CRY FOR THEM!" he screams, and in that second I feel the force of his grief. I wouldn't have blamed him if he lunged at me right there and then.

"It wasn't me!" I say, before I realize what I'm saying. Richard barks out another laugh. "What you mean, it wasn't you? You were the spy!" he spits. "I know. But I didn't call Napcon. I was going to. But I didn't. I turned the communications receiver off!" I pull out the little pager-like device, its tiny screen blank. He squints at it. "So you didn't kill them," he admits gruffly, "but it doesn't make a difference. You wanted them dead. You betrayed their trust. Don't come crying and tell me you loved them." His voice is barely under control. He won't even look at me.

"I did." My voice is a toneless whisper. "I did." I shut my eyes, feeling the hateful tears come down again. I shouldn't have. Shouldn't have.

I feel a rough hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, okay?!" I yell, whipping around.

I come face to face with Julius.

For a moment nobody moves, or speaks, or even breathes. "Julius?" I ask, disbelievingly. I look past him, and see Eliza grinning, leaning against a sturdy tree branch, her right leg singed. Domovoi and Richard are embracing, all show of macho indifference gone. "You lousy old-timer, I thought you were gone for good!" roars Richard, as Domovoi claps him on the back.

"What, you guys thought that tiny barrage of missiles was gonna get us?" Julius laughs, teasing amusement in his tone. I see his shrewd green eyes darting a glance at me, taking in my tearstained face, my half-stunned, half-anguished expression, still almost unable to understand what's just happened. The familiar, smug little smile tugs at his lips, and I see a gleam in his eyes that he gets when he knows he's got the right answer. "We thought that was it for all of you." I say, still shocked. Eliza laughs her warm chuckle. "Yeah, we did too. But we made it." she points out.

I can't deceive them anymore. I have to admit it. "Guys-" I begin. "We know, Zhalia. We know." Julius replies. All my teammates are looking at me, and I see friendship on all their faces, even Richard. "You proved it, rookie. We were gonna give you a choice, but I think it's pretty clear." says Domovoi gruffly. And as I look around at my friends, I think it's pretty clear too.

"Welcome to the team. For real this time."

Does It Bother You?

I sit in front of my laptop. Open the document I've been working on for two weeks now. The title sits defiantly at the top of the page, bold, size 30, underlined. A title that stood for everything I wanted to tell the world. I work as a motivational speaker, for teenagers with low self-esteem, problems, issues they need to overcome, you get the idea. I'm new to the trade, though. Only been doing this a year or so. Still, schools like me because I charge low prices. After all, it's not like the children really listen. I try my best, of course. I try to help them. But at the end of the day, I'm what, twenty-two? Not that different from them. My boss thinks it helps me connect with them. Personally, I think it just makes it hard for me not to get emotionally tangled. They're a lot more like me than I expect.

We Are All Beautiful. The title of my latest speech. For teenagers who feel ugly, who are anorexic, get teased at school, so on and so forth. I'm going to tell these teenagers that nobody is really ugly, that we all have our own inner beauty. It's what's in the heart that matters. They shouldn't listen to the bullies who call them ugly. They should look in the mirror and feel confident about who they are. That is real beauty- not the garbage that society has imposed upon us. I allow myself a wry smile. A part of me is still the defiant rebel kid from long ago. I close my eyes. Pull up a few pictures of ultra-thin, picture perfect, straight-haired models from online to emphasise my point. It's ridiculous to expect all society to look like that. We all have imperfections. We should embrace them. Turn against society.

In the chair beside me, my colleague, Rebecca, glances over at my title and gives an approving nod. It's well known in the office that this is a topic I feel really strongly about. I usually end up with all the appearance-wise speeches. And I deliver each one with growing passion. I'm not sure how many people know why I feel so strongly about it, though. The answer's pretty obvious. Not for the first time I raise my eyes to the small mirror on my desk. The still-fading teen acne, misaligned teeth, slightly lopsided eyes glance back at me. I quickly look away. Society, I tell myself, Society's fault, not mine. We all have beautiful imperfections. If something ugly can be beautiful. I banish the stray thought. I'm not ugly. I'm not ugly!

A private message pops up in the corner of my screen. It's from my best friend, Richard. I ignored it. Haven't been speaking to him for a few days now. My mind goes back to what happened a week or so ago.

We'd been sitting around in his car, going to play golf or whatever, and I'd told him about this whole speech I was going to give. He'd turned to me and said in a joking manner, something he should have known better than to say, really. "You know why you're always so keen on this whole beauty issue? It's because it bothers you personally. If you were prettier you wouldn't care. I mean, it doesn't really matter does it, unless you're ugly?" he told me. The words still stung. Is that what my best friend thought of me? That I was just an ugly girl trying to defend a lost cause? I guess what made it worse is that I was hopelessly in love with Richard. Not that I intended to tell him. But he thought I was ugly. Who wouldn't, I suppose.

It wasn't that I was really angry with him. I guess I'm just hurt. I don't know how to face him. Because there is some truth in what he said. If I was prettier, maybe I wouldn't care so much about the plight of society and beauty. But I wasn't. And maybe that's why I was so uptight about it. Not some noble urge to defend people. Not some instinct to uphold the truth. Just the sad, resentful writings of an ugly girl. It stung. It really stung. Because it did bother me. Despite all the things I say about inner beauty, about cherishing yourself, about accepting yourself the way you were, it bothered me that I wasn't pretty. I looked at a curly-haired, pearly-teeth, perfect-skin model on my screen.  It was what I was supposed to argue against, the insanely high standards of society. I was supposed to show how it was crazy to want to look like that. But it bothered me, that I didn't look like that. It bothered me that I looked like the opposite of that.

I opened one of those junk emails. Screaming at me to get some plastic surgery. Make my lips fuller, get rid of my premature frown lines, straighten my teeth. I couldn't stop staring at the pictures. Society, I told myself, Society's lies. Don't fall for it. But I couldn't erase the image of straight white teeth, pretty skin, a good figure. Richard telling me I was pretty. Society said I was ugly. Richard said I was ugly. Did it really matter how I became pretty? Did it really matter that it would be only skin deep? Did it really matter that "pretty" wasn't truly pretty? I wanted it.

My own words flooded back to me. Society's idea of pretty might not be right. True beauty comes from the inside. Don't let others tell you who you are. Did I ever really mean it? Did I really believe that inner beauty was all that mattered? Or was I just trying to comfort myself? The link to a plastic surgery clinic was at the bottom of the email. Right under that was the "Close Email" button.

I looked at my speech again. Then back at the mirror. The message from Richard flashed urgently. Inner beauty was important. Society set us unrealistic standards. The most important beauty was confidence. You had to accept yourself to be really happy, or being pretty would mean nothing.
But my teeth would be straight. My eyes would be wide and glittering. My skin would be porcelain. I'd go against everything I wanted to say. But Richard would admire me. At least, he'd admire my exterior.

Inner beauty. Was it wrong to want outer beauty too? But what if "outer beauty" was not what they said it was? I bit my lip with my mismatched teeth. Stared at the computer screen, but also at my reflection in it.

I'd make my decision. And I'd stick to it.

I clicked.

I'll Do It Anyway

He sits across me, in that big cushioned chair I've seen so many times. Bright orange light flickers from the fireplace, dancing across the gold ornaments on the carved mantelpiece. They throw strange, swirling shadows on the pale green walls. I look down at the dark wooden table, with delicate flowery patterns engraved into the rich wood and lined with more burnished gold. The wood itself had no doubt been glossed and polished repeatedly, the way it gleamed in the glow of the dancing flames.

The setting was typical of the big boss- he liked the dramatic, a touch of the grandiose. In his huge, imposing sitting room, the elaborate chandelier always kept off, it was no surprise that the majority of his subordinates had been intimidated, their assignments, previously looking so trivial and mundane, swelled to huge proportions in their intimidated mind's eye. But I'd been here many times before. Given all sorts of frightening assignments. And I was still alive- that counted for something.

The boss surveyed me, his intelligent, dark eyes cool and calculating. Without a word he slid my manila assignment folder across to me. I picked it up and opened it, trying to ignore the eerie shadows moving across the page.

Now, I'm usually a calm worker. I don't freak easily. But the parameters of this mission made me gasp in shock. "Sir, I'm not sure I want to-" I begin, but he raises a hand. "Think about it. Really think about it." he says.

I look down, reading through my instructions again. This mission took place in the snowy peaks of Alaska's mountain ranges. I'd be alone, away from most of my already few trusted co-workers. New colleagues would be assigned to me, ones I knew, but not very well. And I'd be in an unfamiliar environment, fraught with danger. What did he possibly expect me to see, to convince me to continue? That's when I saw it.

In a discreet sentence under the instructions: "This initiative takes place in cooperation with D. Bayte Industries." I froze. My mind rushed back to the Heartbreak War of three summers ago. I was still young back then, with barely any experience. I had been assigned to infiltrate the forest camp of our enemies. It was a tough job, and as a total rookie, I was absolutely terrified. Five days in, facing the threat of enemies everywhere, combined with the exhaustion and pain, and the various terrible things I'd been forced to do, I'd broken down internally. I can't remember exactly how it happened, but my team members told me I'd gone completely nuts. I'd be absolutely silent most of the time, unable to say even a word to anyone, closed up in my own world and a danger to my own colleagues. At other times, I'd go completely wild, firing at will and without instruction, lunging into my enemies without a thought for the safety of myself or anyone else. It was, they said, a truly frightening sight.

I might not have broken out of it, if D. Bayte Industries hadn't agreed to take me in on an apprenticeship. They overlooked my mental instability and offered me an internship as part of their new team, taking on less risky methods. A few of their members offered me psychological therapy as well, and the solace of friendship. It helped me come back to sanity.

A few months on, when my internship ended, I was stable again, in my right mind. I returned to my current organization, gratitude fresh in my heart. I didn't know when or how I'd ever be able to repay D. Bayte Industries. And now here was my chance.

Alone in Alaska. Away from the people I cared for, on a mission that was impossibly dangerous. I'd be with people I didn't know- I still had a slight hang-up about that. But it was for D. Bayte Industries. The people who took in the rookie no one else wanted. Who accepted me, for once. A crazy, lonely, sullen apprentice.

"I am aware that you will not be with your usual colleagues. And that there is a great risk of intense personal harm." said the boss quietly.

"Yeah. So am I. But you know what?" I looked up at him. "I'll do it anyway."

In The Jungle

I padded through my jungle, feeling the scent of prey in my nostrils. It was still bright in the day, too early for a panther to be hunting, but I was hungry. Too hungry to sleep, or to defend my prey against the jaguars at night. It had to be now.

The smell of a frightened deer was fresh in my mind. I broke into a loping run, heading toward the promise of prey. I could smell  something else, too- something that wasn't prey. It was farther off, and I couldn't be sure what it was. But it had the distinct smell of danger. Better to get my meal and be off as soon as possible.

The dense jungle was especially humid this time of year. Not much of a problem for me, though. I'd lived here all my life, and I was used to the environment. Overhead, I heard the chattering of various monkeys, swinging through the lush green canopy. The warning hisses of pythons, probably curled up somewhere in the trees. No other predators as far as I could tell.

The prey was near, just behind the trees ahead. I could hear its frantic panting now. But what was equally clear was that other smell, heading this way and growing stronger all the while. I recognized it.

Crash! I leapt through a cluster of ferns and landed, as only a panther could, precisely between my prey and the new challenger. But not such a new challenger, really.

"Kiela." The cool, calm, infuriating voice of Pato, the smallest jaguar in the jungle. Pato was a runt. Born smaller than your average jaguar, he always had to fight harder and smarter than the others for his meals. He was less powerful than the other predators I faced, but no less dangerous. I knew him pretty well though. Shouldn't have too much of a problem fighting him off. The problem, however, was the prey.

A long, slender brown body lay against the mossy roots of a great tree. One of the spindly legs was bent at an odd angle, but there was no mistaking the burn scars on the hind of the deer that had run with me, worked to protect me, and probably saved  my life in last year's forest fire.

Ayik. The young male deer had gotten trapped in the burning undergrowth, a forest fire brought on by the dry seasons. I was likewise caught, my hind legs crushed beneath a fallen tree. Ayik had ignored his prey instincts to save me, and together we made it to a river. Grateful as I was, I was still a predator. I could not let myself starve to death. But while I could not promise to never hunt another deer, I could resolve to leave this one alone. We had made friends, as far as that was possible. And now he was right in front of me, helpless and injured.

His gaze locked onto mine. I could see the terror in his large, liquid eyes. Foam lined his open, red, panting mouth and his three good legs struggled desperately to get off the ground. I looked back to Pato, and saw his calm, arrogant, top-of-the-food-chain confidence. This wasn't a battle I could allow myself to walk away from.

"This one is mine." I snarled, baring my fangs and arching my sleek black back. I turned to face the small jaguar completely. "Come on, Kiela. You are hungry, weak. This isn't one you can win. Back off." he said smoothly, infuriatingly. I growled again, raising my fur this time, and gathering my back legs to spring. "One more chance. He's mine. Back off, or we'll see if you're as tough as you think." I warned. Pato surveyed me coolly. He was well-fed, that much was true. Better than me, anyway. His intelligent gold eyes flicked over my still powerful, coiled muscles, and my gleaming fangs. Decided it wasn't worth it.

"Very well, panther. Your kill." he hissed, backing off. I waited till he was at a fair distance.

"Ayik. It's been a while." I said, padding over to nose my friend to his feet. "Kiela, you have no idea." he replied, the familiar warmth in his eyes. "You know, if the other big cats knew I'd been hanging around deer, I'd be dead meat." I joked, like I had a million times before. It's funny, see, because the big cats didn't actually have friends. Ayik gave a half-hearted snort, collapsing down again. "It's no use. My leg's shot." he muttered.

"Well then, I'll stay with you till it's better." I offered. He looked up at me, surprised. "Kiela, you're a predator. I'm prey. It wouldn't work out very well." he pointed out. I laughed, a barking panther-laugh. "Well, Ayik. That's what friends are for."

Aximilli

"Hey. That box. Over there."

I walked over to the unassuming cardboard box, sitting there so dull and plain I hadn't even noticed it. As I drew closer, I felt my breath catch in my throat. I'd been waiting for this day for a very long time. And I'd seen it a thousand times over in my dreams. But this was real. It was real at last.

Thick lengths of tape stretched across the cardboard, securely holding it shut. With trembling hands I reached for a large pair of scissors. If this was it... If this was happening... I wanted to know. But did I really want to know now? All of a sudden? It was more than I ever expected. With a sudden decisiveness, I struck with the scissors, slicing the tape in half, then abandoning my blades, I ripped at the box with my bare hands, scrabbling, tearing at the plastic with a vehemence I had not known was there.

The tape was off before long. Quietly the box sat, unsealed now. Whatever lay beneath the cardboard flaps, I could find out now, just by stretching out and opening the box. I wanted to know.

Tentatively, expectantly, I lifted a cardboard flap. A papery, dusty smell wafted out.

I opened the other flap, biting my lip with anticipation, my heart pounding. I looked down at the contents of the box. Looking up at me was a face I was afraid I'd never see again.

Joy and gratitude bubbled up in my chest. I knew a stupid grin was plastered across my face.

"Hello again. I've missed you."