Fighting while injured or in a cast was regular part of our training.We were well fed, maintained and taught, but we weren't loved. The Organization was not equipped to raise a child.Our teachers would change every few weeks. They wanted us loyal to the company, not a person.By the time we hit puberty, there wasn't a gun we couldn't disassemble, clean, and reassemble, blindfolded, in less than three minutes. We knew dozens of fighting styles, and hundreds of ways to kill.As with any human being, we needed love and emotional support. The only ones to give us this was each other. From our earliest memory, my brother and I were always close. Eric and I trusted each other implicitly. We knew each others fighting strengths and weaknesses, and complimented each other in combat, like cogs in a pocket watch. A quick glance or slight nod could convey volumes of information between us.When we reached our teens, training shifted to espionage. We learned to lie, act, and mimic others. We could. Secretly he’d looked out for their shows on his laptop and in the many glossy magazines of his mother, caught up by the magical world it represented – a world of bewildering beauty. He liked fashion – the bold and original creations, the self-assured models and their shameless urge to exhibit their bodies. At high school, he knew he’d had better taste than most girls – sometimes biting his tongue not to comment or suggest improvements.His deeper feelings weren’t mixed at all, he knew; he was just scared of them.Maybe Kurtz was right. Maybe all this school had to do was peel off that fear. Maybe all it took to graduate was to dissolve your self-consciousness.He turned away from the window, watching the girl next to him.She wore a long, fully skirted dress made from layers of light, gauzy material. It had a tight, square-cut top with spaghetti straps that left her delicate clavicles free, as well as a big part of her chest. The fabric was so sheer that it took strips of embroidered.
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