Cypher's Assassins

“This is where you live?”

Cypher didn’t answer at first, his hands fiddling with the lock on the small, iron door. Finally, it gave way and the door groaned in protest as he pushed it open.

“No. This is where I hole up, occasionally get into fistfights, and bury a few enemies. Or friends. Depends on who dies first.”

Sparrow felt for the wall as they descended a steep, narrow staircase into the dark. The stones were cold and slimy to the touch. “I hope that was sarcasm.”

“Yes, idiot. You’re hopeless.”

Sparrow ignored him as they reached the bottom of the stairs. He lit a flashlight, illuminating a small, underground room, with arched doorways and several passages branching in all directions.

“Who’s there?” a voice called out at once, in response to the light.

“Me!” Cypher returned. A tall man emerged from one of the arches and stepped into the room. He was middle-aged, with sandy-colored hair and thin, oddly curving lips. As he straightened, Sparrow saw that one of his shoulders was higher than the other, and his whole body seemed somehow crooked.

“It’s Cypher,” Cypher added, lowering the beam of his flashlight slightly so as not to blind the man.

“We use code names here. How long will it take for you to learn that?”

“I don’t. I work under my own name. I’ve brought a friend, this is Sparrow.”

The man nodded. “Did you check the door? Then go on, the others are inside.”

He led the way through the door he had come from, and they entered another room similar to the first, but larger. At one end of the room were several compartments that reminded Sparrow of lockers, and a few thick blankets were spread on the stone floor. A handful of people sat about, leaning against the walls, some of them talking quietly. Most of them were young, Sparrow and Cypher’s age, and many of them were dressed in ragtag bits of old military uniforms, the browns and greens interrupted by the occasional flash of red or blue. Everyone in the room looked tired. They glanced up as the newcomers entered, but seemed uninterested.

“That’s Twister,” Cypher murmured, as the tall man walked off. Sparrow watched him go. He walked with a limp, his body twisting sideways with every step. She wasn’t sure what to make of him yet, there was something strange about him that she couldn’t place.

Cypher dropped down on the ground among the others, and Sparrow sat by his side. To their right sat a girl who watched them with a calculating look in her dark eyes. She wore a uniform ten times too big for her, and a rifle lay across her lap.

“Hi,” she finally said. “Who’re you?”

“Sparrow.” The name sounded like a lie to Sparrow. It wasn’t really, but was it the truth? She had had so many names, gone by countless different things, and none of them felt right. Who are you? Actress. Performer. Acrobat. University student. Thief. Assassin. Criminal. A good girl with a dangerous streak. No one ever knew more than a fraction of who she was.

The other girl nodded. “I’m Cam.” Code names, Twister had said. It made sense. They were all hiding something here. “You Cypher’s friend?” Cam asked.

“Yeah. He offered me work.”

She slowly nodded again, then turned away.

Cypher stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned against the wall, his eyes nearly closed. A boy nearby turned a knob on a small radio that stood in the corner, and a staticky voice filled the room.

“As riots continue, regional guard forces can no longer contend with the increasing violence of armed demonstrators. Prime Minister Gall pledges to send out the national militia, if violence continues.”

A female voice took over the announcements. “An alarming string of bomb threats have rattled the country, beginning last Sunday. A total of six threats have been reported, made against schools, government offices, military bases, and community centers. Luckily, no bombings have been successfully carried out, although in several cases explosives were located upon investigation. The most recent threat was made only two hours ago, by an anonymous person at the Royal University at Seawick.”

Sparrow glanced at the radio, startled. Only twenty-four hours ago she had been an enrolled student at the Royal University, top of her class and destined to be end of year speaker. Technically she was still enrolled there, she thought with a rueful smile. Well, those days were over. It would be no great loss if the Royal were blown up, but so far none of the other bombing attempts had been successful. It was almost spooky, how closely these events were dogging Sparrow’s steps. She felt strangely intertwined with the string of violence that was tearing the country apart, but she had done nothing. She hadn’t asked for any of this, and she hadn’t initiated anything. But, since it had brought her good fortune, she wasn’t strictly opposed to it. Did that somehow make her responsible?

She didn’t want to think about it.