III

When we finally arrived at our house, it was already dusk: the sun winding down, disappearing behind the large structure.

The structure was highly unusual, to say the least, but we all liked it and worked hard to build it and so it stayed. The stony path that led up to the threshold, already overcome by bushes and weed, was long and forbidding. On the left was the huge library, I insisted on having, it was three stories long, peeking out from the rest of the house as an odd decagon-based cylindric shape. The rest of the design featured a geometric mess. It was a larger dodecagon (12 sides) based cylinder, lying on its side, the garage a simple box attached to the right of it so that the entirety of the structure formed an awkward 'U' like shape. The other thing that I insisted on was all the windows would be one-way mirrors so no one could use it to spy on us or know what exactly was going on inside, it also helped in camouflaging the place, aiding the forest-resembling mess of paint that covered it.

The house also held a gym, a gaming room, a media room, ten bedrooms, eleven washrooms, a music room (for Dragon) a toys room for Grace, huge kitchen, two-story garages (could hold up until six cars in each floor), a large living room and, my personal fav, the library. The backyard also had a swimming pool.

I left the car first, eager to get away from the unbearable tension as I entered the access code. Alexia, my programmed computer companion, letting me in. I swung the door to the main entrance, which opened to the living room. I wrapped my coat tighter around myself, contemplating to escape into solitude before any of them noticed my wounds. That thought died when her "highness" bombarded me on the doorstep.

"Black!" Grace, my precious 5-year-old, launched herself in my arms. I almost went tumbling down, was it not for Dragon holding me upright from behind. Even when mad, he still watched out for me: the better half of our tag team.

Grace was minute for her age, 37" or so and weighed practically nothing. Her hip-long auburn hair braided loosely, and her green eyes were so big they swallowed her entire tiny face. Being the little spoiled princess, she was, typical to form, overdressed. That time it was an elegant, knitted navy dress that flowed around her in a mini skirt. Grace was also an AUT (Assassin Under Training) and her current assignment was to "kill" any one of us aka prank us. So far, tough luck for her.

"Black!" She screeched in my ear again.

"See!" She motioned for me to put her down. She spun around, and the dress rippled around her.

"How do I look?" She said with a big smile.

"Like a fairy princess," I answered, and she beamed. As if just then noticing the bandages and the dirt smeared over me she cocked her head in an adorable manner, pursing her lips (a habit she acquired from me).

"You hurt?" She asked, worry creasing her face as the joy depleted from her. Her eyes misted: her cheeks flushed.

"No, really. Grace, don't cry. Black is fine. I am fine. See?" I made a show of picking her up in one arm, then lifting her over my head and on my shoulders, she clutched my hair in her tiny hands.

"Black is hurt." She whispered as if telling the information to the wind. I retrieved her from over my shoulders until her face was on the same level as mine.

"Grace, it's all good," I said again, but tears streamed down her face.

"Don't cry," I whispered, but instead she wailed.

"Nighthawk! Sunshine! Darling!" She called, while I tried to muffle her voice.

"Please, don't." I begged her, but she shook her head "no."

Whistling sounded from behind the couch on the right of us and then I noticed a pair of funky socks that can only belong to one person.

"And here I thought you were zombies from the apocalypse out for my brain, you look so bad." He said. Dragon snorted.

"Oh, darlin'," Dragon sneered the endearment. "If we were zombies out for brains then we wouldn't come after you."

Darling (and yes that was his name), was "sitting" and I use the term rather loosely, upside down on the couch, his legs crossed at the ankles and bowl of popcorn, chocolate, gummy candy, and I wasn't sure what the last thing was, but didn't believe it to be edible on his left. To his right was a can full of cookies and at the floor next to his head were two bottles of whiskey and four of soda.

"You look like hell." He said ignoring Dragon's comment.

"On the other side, you're all ready for the gala going as a mummy, I wonder what I'm dressing as this year." Darling teased and had Grace not been in my arms I would've sent a knife through his head.

Darling was a nineteen-year-old flirter, with exotic features. His eyes were a startling purple that would make people question their own eyes and make them look twice. They also seemed to glow in the dark all onto their own. As if his eyes weren't enough, Darling also had red hair, that he kept up until his neck in a tiny ponytail. His features were sharp, his eyes contrasting with his hair, which contrasted with his tawny skin tone. Overall, he was a remarkable sight. Yet, despite that or due to that, girls for some bizarre reason liked him, even loved him. I did not share that. All I craved was his death, or at least his silence. I craved the day I would wake up and not have to worry about who ate the last piece of cake or took Grace's cookies.

For the record, it's usually him that did it.

"Are you committing suicide?" I mumbled. Then louder I said:

"What are you doing?" He paused his game on VR (virtual reality) and took off his "helmet".

Virtual Reality is a series of games that allow the person to engage in with a helmet, that allows you to hear and see the action happening in a more realistic level than any screen would be able to and instead of a control, you have gloves that allow you to feel the object in the hand and the texture of whatever you touch. The gloves also have a "visual" control panel if one would like to sit down and play instead of going all over the place, which was what Darling was utilizing. The other thing about the gloves is that they can automatically shrink or expand to the size of a persons' hands so that one wouldn't need to change them or get different sizes.

Darling gave me an aggravated look, propping himself on his elbows for a better view of me.

"I'm bored!" He exclaimed, like a four-year-old. His voice more high-pitched than usual, no doubt just to piss me off.

"In case you haven't noticed," Ever the cynical one. He continued, "this tends to be the direct result of that!" He motioned to the mountain around him.

I scoffed derisively at his logic.

"Then get up and do something useful," I said. He jeered, rolled his eyes and threw himself against the couch again.

"I don't wanna!" He wailed, his voice gaining another octave sounding more like a screeching cat.

"So, if you don't mind," he sneered the sentence at me.

"Commander," Sarcastic, as always.

"I'm gonna sit 'ere and enjoy my treat!" He proceeded to shove an entire cookie in his mouth. How he managed to fit the damn thing was beyond me, but he always had a big mouth on him.

"No, darling." I sneered the endearment. "What you're doing is setting yourself on a highway to a diabetic coma, or hell. If it's the latter, please don't as I don't want to see you there for the rest of eternity as well."

Dragon snickered then tsked.

"Good luck trying to talk sense to him. The only way he listens is if we beat it into him." Dragon glared at Darling. "Though I have to say it's not worth the effort."

Darling flicked us off and went back to his VR game. Ironically, it was an assassination one.

"Anyway, pack your things you and I are heading out tomorrow." I sobered as I scanned the place for Sunshine, who would no doubt freak if he was to see my state.

Darling gawked at me, his face twisting into a mask of disgust.

"Why?!" He wailed. "I am on leave."

"I don't care," I told him and if looks could kill, I'd be in hell right then... or at least the other one, where I am, no doubt, heading to once I die. I wondered if it even existed.

"I am on leave!" He wailed on, then glared at me, tossing the gloves aside.

"Go yourself!" Darling sneered. "Oh, all mighty commander Black!"

"I am your commander," I said coolly. "And if I say you are off leave," I continued my voice growing chiller, as the too familiar sickness seeped into my bones, my sanity slowly slipping: my patience running too thin. "you are off leave."

Darling swallowed audibly, smiling cautiously as he weighed his options.

He got off the couch to his full height two inches shorter than I and gave me the most sarcastic military salute I have ever witnessed.

"Why, commander?!" He said, using his "charms". "I am ever" He emphasised that word with a roll of his tongue, his eyes half hooded. "at your beck and call." He pursed his lips as if kissing the air between us. I arched an annoyed eyebrow at him. "But honey sweetie-pie,"

What did he just call me?

"I will make your life a living hell." He said; Another sarcastic kiss. "Cause where ever," I was curious where that was headed. "will I, a simple idiot of an assassin, find a commander so strong and handsome and smart,"

Could he be any more sarcastic?

"to follow. I simply must show my appreciation..."

"Are you finished?" I cut him off, fingering my blade at my side.

"Not quite." He shook his head. "Grace might need to leave the room, profanity is coming up." He warns staring at her: her tears drying up.

"Grace, go treat yourself to some cookies," I told her, but she refused to be put down.

"What's profanity?" She asked, Darling and Dragon just stared at me.

"A very bad disease," I told her and Darling snorted derisively, while Dragon snickered. I waited until Grace left the room, before spinning to Darling again.

"Please do continue." I waved at Darling, my curiosity sparking.

"Where was I?" He scratched thoughtfully at his chin. "Oh, Yes! Showin' ma appreciation to the bestest fuckin' commander of 'em all." I forced the corners of my mouth up in a sadistic smile.

"And how are you going to do that?" I probed; his mischievous eyes gleamed.

"I thought you'd never ask." He smiled widely, my fists ached for contact with that grin to wipe it right off, but I clamped that urge down.

He was bluffing.

"Sunshine!" He called running towards the kitchen to tell on me! Little tattle-tale! I ran after him, tackling him to the hardwood floor, my back screaming at me in protest. "Sunshine! Black is-" I clamped my hand over his big mouth.

"Shut up." I hissed at him, but the bastard bit me.

"Black is hurt, again!" He called and just as I was about to knock some serious sense into my darling a voice stopped me dead in my tracks.

"Black?" Sunshine called from the kitchen.

Bleeding hell!

I ran the opposite of ways into the sanctuary of my room, which was on the topmost corner of the library, piled with books and dust: much more like an office than a bedroom. I entered and closed the door after me, sinking to the ground in relief of the disaster that was avoided.

The sun was fading. It has gotten us an entire day to get back to my place, but only because we'd taken our sweet time.

I stumbled upright abandoning my shades to the nightstand and landed face first into the soft mattress of my bed. My eyes were heavy, burning. I ached to drift away into soundless sleep, but I knew that it would not be soundless. I hated the images that plagued my mind whenever my eyes were closed and some days they didn't have to be closed at all. They would come, either way, most times for no other reason than to torment me. I sighed in disgust.

My room was bare for the most part, drained of all personality and character. The walls held no art or pictures, the floor was the same plain dark oak as the rest of the library: the curtains with a slither of space between, and the clear ceiling above me showing the promise of stars as the canopy once the garish sun is no more. My desk, the only part of the room that wasn't impeccably clean, was of a dark-chestnut tree and over-run with piles of books and notes: notebooks and ancient scrolls with a lamb buried somewhere in the mess. While I did appreciate and prefer technology for most of the research I do for the league, I didn't trust them not to investigate my work and hack it. It was too easy to do and with that hacker on the loose, I was gladder than ever to have my library and work far away from anyone's grasps, but mine.

A knock sounded on the door. Sunshine. He was the only one who bothered knocking. I retrieved my shades and pulled the sheets over my head: darkening the entire room into impeccable darkness by pressing the button for the second layer of the ceiling (opaque) to shut out the twilight. It didn't affect my eyesight. As much as I hated the defection of my eyes, they allowed me to sight with absolute accuracy even in the darkest of nights, so they remained. It was another reason why I don't wear contacts, they restrict my vision: a deadly liability I can't afford to have.

"Come in," I called. He did. His golden locks were matted to his forehead, dripping water. "What happened?" I asked. He gave me a weary smile.

"You don't want to know." He said simply, holding a tray of steaming food in his hand while in his other hand he held a book. My eyes lit at the sight of the leather-bound book, but he pulled it away before I could reach it.

"Eat." He ordered wincing as he noticed the bandage on my face, but probably couldn't make out the worse of the injuries, because he didn't freak: or maybe he was just used to it.

"The book. Is it what I think it is?" Sunshine gave me a peeved stare.

"Black! Honestly, did you even eat in the last couple of days?! You look so thin, you might as well drop dead at any minute!" He was growing impatient with me and I knew it. He was nineteen, the eldest. Often treating the rest of us like incapable little children. He would go as far as fussing and fuming when one of us would disregard his warnings or forget to eat, get hurt, stink, or any other reason really. It was almost as if he enjoyed playing the parent kind of role, besides in his defence we do deserve it, most of the times.

"I did!" I retorted defensively. His turquoise pale eyes told me that he didn't believe me for a single second.

"Whiskey and apples don't count." I was silent. Technically, I hadn't been drinking much and I never had, but a glass here and there never hurt much, especially when I had to deal with the morons I had to deal with back at the capital.

"I had oranges and bananas too," I muttered. He looked aghast.

"What?" I snapped at him. "We all know I'm a terrible cook." I shrugged. It was true. Cooking was one of the few very necessary surviving skills I was unblessed with and failed to pick up no matter how many times I tried. Unless it involved hunting prey and roasting it on a campfire, I was useless in the kitchen. Skrymer (my former mentor) even tried to beat it into me... it didn't work, and she gave up altogether when I almost poisoned us with my cooking on my fourth anniversary with her.

"So, you starve?"

"I did not starve!" I argued wistfully knowing that he wouldn't hear a word I spoke. I flicked him off. "Go back to the kids downstairs and give me the book." He inspected me wearily.

"You're hurt, aren't you?" I snorted, disgusted by their low opinion of me. I reached out and snatched the leather-bound book out of his hands.

"You know, you and the others tend to forget that I am a commander of the diamond class. The only one in centuries to have proclaimed the title and more than able to take care of myself." I said. He placed the tray down and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Yeah. The same one who forgets to eat for days. The one who has no regard for his life whatsoever and is like a spoiled teenager throwing himself in the line of danger for no reason whatsoever except to die or to – I quote: 'get out of the hell-hole'." He threw his arms up in the air in mock surrender.

"Yep, quite capable indeed." He sobered. "Just don't do something stupid. I already must deal with the other four. I don't need to add one suicidal teenager to the list."

"I'm not suicidal." I sighed. "But the one downstairs drowning his boredom and frustration in a mountain of chocolate, candy and unholy amount of sugar. Now, there's the sweetest way to commit suicide if I ever heard one." Sunshine muttered irritably under his breath. Then louder he spoke:

"Well, at least he's creative. You oughta give him that." He paused: thoughtful for a while. "How long do you think he'd survive?"

"At the rate he's going? A couple of hours. Maybe less." Sunshine spun on his heels and the door swung open as he approached it. He spun again to pin me with one last menacing glare.

"Eat!" He ordered, and I mockingly raised the spoon of food to my mouth. The door closed behind him with a precise click. He went out of the door grumbling. "One is committing suicide by diabetes and the other starvation! Children!"

And I am the control freak?

As soon as he was out of sight, I dropped the spoon, which cluttered as it met the plate, from my hand and opened the book to a random page. I cursed foully under my breath. It was in a language I didn't recognize.

Damn it!

How many languages were there in the 21st century?! For crying aloud, just why? So far, I had to learn Spanish, Chinese, Japanese, French, Romanian, Italian, Greek and ancient Greek, Korean, German, Arabic, Finnish, Latin, Swedish, Turkish, Russian, and Portuguese and three others I forget the names of. I ran through the list of possibilities in my mind but had no idea what language that was.

Perfect! Just perfect!

I threw the book aside, setting the tray of food on the nightstand, untouched. Sunshine would be back as soon as he finished with Darling and then in the morning, I would have to go with Darling to the third district – an entire day trip. I would then have to find some mysterious hacker out of hundreds of kids and kill her – a girl that's my age – in cold blood. I was also going to have to find a way to disguise the lash across my face or find a plausible excuse.

You could just let Darling do it...

That was a thought, except he was far too overconfident and tended to get off topic, besides it was my punishment.

Selene should've thought about that before lashing your face... A part of me argued.

You should've kept your mouth shut! My brain, no doubt, screeched in respond.

In the stillness of the room – the impeccable blackness of my world – I heard them screaming. The words were like the phantom ghosts circling the cold, dead space of my bedroom whenever I was alone. They could and did show themselves when others were there too, but it wasn't as severe.

I didn't know who they were, I suspected they were the dead, but I didn't really know. I never truly saw them, only heard the words echo around me – condemning my every action – tormenting me with what I would never have. They were like dark angels – shadows watching my life play out and, on every turn, they tried to tear me apart. I had grown too accustomed to it to notice anymore.

- "Monster!" They called.

- "Errands boy!" Another one – a female screeched at me.

- "Demonic!"

- "Demon-spawn!"

- "League born!"

- "Erebus' lap dog!"

- "Lab rat!"

- "Nothing!"

- "Filthy assassin!"

The whispers all blended together in a cacophony of unintelligible words and noises, the wind still howling outside my bedroom, but it was in my head. It must've been because no one was there. It was just me in that room. It was just I and my over-imaginative mind.

I learned, over the years, that if I did not get drunk or drugged, then they would not be as loud. If I was not high on something, then I could control them better, drown them out with something – like music.

Dragon and Skrymer thought that music was an outlet for me (and it was) but the reason I loved it was that when I heard it, the dead seemed silent. It wouldn't last long, they would start bickering again as soon as it concluded, sometimes it would last for minutes, sometimes an entire half an hour of silence.

I also learned early on telling people that you can hear voices is a guaranteed trip to the asylum and they were right, I was crazy, but I did not want to be in a mental ward.

I only ever told one person, once and that was only because there were hundreds of them that night and just a four-year-old me. She didn't make them go away, but she did keep me anchored to reality. After that episode, Skrymer was half convinced that I had "snuck a sip" to quote her, though of what I could not imagine since she did not ever take any drugs herself and would not allow them in the quarters. I "confessed" that I did indeed sip a particularly burning whiskey down at the bar earlier, though I had thought it to be apple juice. She had believed me, and I never told a soul about my "company" since.

"Alexia, soft music," I ordered my computer companion. Connected to everything in the house, she had no problem carrying out the order.

I closed my eyes and laughed maniacally at the voices that have been – ironically – the only real constant in my life. They were the only ones that never left – the only ones that stayed for the sake of tormenting me, but they stayed. At least in a twisted bizarre sense, I was worth tormenting. I was worth something at least.

The voices quieted down at the sound of the lunatic laughs as I told them:

"You forgot one," I informed them, sobering.

"Death." I forced my mouth up in a maniac smirk.

They shrieked away from me but picked up shortly thereafter with a vengeance.

My eyes drooped, and I drifted into the darkness again, allowing it to engulf me: ignoring the voices condemning me.