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Watching His Footsteps

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It has been two weeks since the horrifying St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, and London was nowhere close to recovering. The last of the anemic hearts, perforated by the arrows of a winged lunatic, were being swept towards the city’s sewers. Many more hearts were filled with fear as the number of victories of the terrorist organization, Jackal, slowly climbed. These days, you couldn’t hop on to your favorite websites without hearing of their most recent proclivities. Within a matter of months, they have managed to destroy both the Millennium Dome and Canary Wharf, and robbed a Vault. It wasn’t until rumors of their plans to destroy the Castle, a landmark of personal significance, did Mackenzie decide to act.

It’s the Central Disaster Authority’s responsibility to contain these threats and deal with the radiation left behind from the initial attacks. The public, however, view them as an organization that hires a bunch of clowns to get themselves killed over and over again. Mackenzie knew that getting herself killed would probably kill her, so she decided to take up secretary work for Mrs. Indira Vharma, CDA’s mission control and Ellaria Sand’s actress from Game of Thrones.

Mackenzie entered the the building cautiously, wearing the same burgundy pantsuit she wore when she chaperoned her little brother’s prom. Underneath that was a pair of sequined sweatpants, in case she felt the need for an afternoon jog. Before she could possibly notice all the little details of the area surrounding her, such as the purple hyacinth gently positioned on top of the water dispenser, she was surrounded by three rather large gentlemen. The lifted her up and took her to the nearby elevator, where she waited until she reached a well-lit corridor. She was instructed to proceed towards the first door to her left, ignoring the door on the right because it held nothing but secrets inside.

The room she entered was surprisingly lavish. A king sized bed lay proudly in the center of the room, flanked by nightstands designed by Greek poets. The east wall was hidden by curtains which, when pulled apart, revealed a lack of a windows. Directly in front of the bed was a ninety inch flat screen TV, with a desk next to it. Atop the desk was a folder, with the words “Hunter” typewritten on it. Within it was his profile, complete with his statistics, biography, and picture. Didn’t we hire this guy twice already? She asked herself, looking at the big man with the brown beard and the goggles he has but doesn’t wear. The words of the former assistant rang in her ears “This company’s turning whiter than a midwinter, vampire, powdered sugar party. Mackenzie didn’t really mind, she just wondered why more Americans are interested in London than fellow Brits.

The only other papers in the folder were her instructions. She needed to write a performance report on this new recruit, his contributions to the team, and whether or not he belongs in the company. Interestingly, she was also instructed to phrase it in such a way that she was “playing as him.” This, she assumed, was an indication that she already got the job.

Mackenzie lay in bed, a bowl of freshly microwaved popcorn beside her. She was pondering what sounds the sun makes when the TV turned itself on. She scrambled towards her desk to grab her writing implements before settling herself comfortably in her swivel chair.