I'm through chapter 7 now. It's been fun. I'm going to post the chapters, and anyone who has the will to read them and wants to make comments will be greatly appreciated. Even if it sucks horribly, I've enjoyed writing them... .

Chapter 1 (though it has since been re-written to be past tense and 3rd person, because that felt better)

There was a strange musty smell in what was left of her nose. The smell didn’t fit the room at all. She stood in what one could only assume was a clean room… bathed in pristine white light from computer screens, oscilloscopes, televisions, and light bulbs that were much brighter than they really needed to be. It looked like an interrogation room for nocturnal people. The largest screen was just to her right… and when she saw it, she knew she had made a bad decision coming out tonight. It was just playing static, and anyone who leaves their TV screen on white fuzz is up to no good.

As the shock of the brightness wore off, she began to notice the noises around her. They coalesced together oddly, forming some type of inorganic electropop ode to Prince and Bowie. The static TV hummed gently, almost musically as a frequency oscillated back and forth, never too sharply, just rhythmic and gentle. Oscilloscopes were beeping away as they recorded God only knows what, and Marie finally noticed that there were many people in the room, pecking away at keyboards… adding a hint of percussion to the cacophony of modernization.

“Welcome to M94, Marie.” She just nodded and semi-fainted back against the door, clutching against its smooth surface for a hold on the moment. “I am Captain Fredrick Von Peterschmidt the 17th ; however, you may call me ‘Captain,’ ‘Sir,’ or ‘Your handsome-ness’. I suppose you would like to know what exactly is going on here?”

A half-hearted “uh-huh” was all she could muster.

“All of these people work for a contractor that has been subletting jobs from the CIA for the past twenty-seven years. We routinely get jobs that the CIA dubs ‘boring’ such as starting world wars and assassinating men of impeccable character. As for the details, well, I cannot share those with you currently… as you are still an outsider. Until you have gone through our training program, you will not be privy to our internal affairs, nor will you be allowed to roam in and out of our halls. You have been assigned an escort for the following three months of training. You will be taught all the important facets of being one of our agents: gun-handling, espionage, how to wear dashing hats and monocles, and the like. I also regret to announce that there is no turning back now. You have chosen to join us by showing up tonight. By doing so, you have forfeited any chance at your old life… the only way out now, is by death. For instance, if you were to turn around and run for the door, the television that has the static on it would promptly electrocute you to within an inch of your life, then it would play a video of me laughing like a super-villain, and re-promptly finish killing you. Nothing good ever comes from TVs that just play static.”

With that, Fredrick turned back to a computer screen and a well-built, shirtless, gentleman walked into the room as two of the largest screens slid silently apart revealing a hallway. “Hello madame, my name is Kalashnikov. I am Russian. My abs are real. I am your escort.” He took her by the hand and led her through the hallway. As they approached the end of the hallway, the two end-cap doors opened noiselessly, but instead of just sliding apart, they pivoted at the top outside corners. Behind the doors lay a room decorated completely in black and white checker-squares. Between the atrocious decorating and the strange experience of watching doors open at the corners, Marie became visibly nauseous and off balance. Her training was already beginning.

Frederick stared blankly at a nearby screen, “God, I hate that Kalashnikov, thinks that just because he has the world’s greatest abs, he can walk around shirtless. I need a drink.” With that, he pulled a flask out of his trench-coat, fixed his monocle into place underneath his bowler and took a sip followed by a sigh. He’d been at this a long time, long enough that his service had earned him the right to carry the flask in a place where alcohol was frowned upon, but he still always felt guilty about roping people into the organization; never seemed quite kosher to him that they brought in people who would never amount to more than doggy-fodder for counter-organizations… especially the ones that may have had a future else-where. Hell, Marie had a job and drinking money; that’s better than he had when they found him… and she’d probably amount to no more than a scape-goat for a flopped assassination.

With that, the nuisance of conscience and responsibility left him. Just like Frederick Von Peterschmidt the 16th used to say: What use is being an old dog if you can’t Alzheimer away your sins? His flashback fleeted away, “Cally, get me a line to the director of internal affairs, he and I have much to discuss.”

She smiled at him and answered with a sassy, “Yes sir.” Cally was a beautiful young girl… so beautiful in fact that many wondered how she’d become part of the Charisma Project. Her twenty-five years had been fairly kind to her, she was the estranged daughter of a politician and a prostitute… paid handsomely through her younger years to keep her mouth shut about the truth and being that money buys happiness, she’d always been fairly happy. In her youth she had been rash… spending the money frivolously on energy-reducing cars, greenhouses, solar panels and other such non-sense and before long she found herself in quite a monetary bind. Fortunately for her, her father’s brother chose to pay off her debt for her in exchange for her services as a secretary… but Cally Von Peterschmidt showed so much aptitude in the dark arts of espionage and the light arts of being dressed in a dashing manner, that she soon began to climb up the totem pole of Charisma without even relying on her Uncle to lower down a ladder. She had become Frederick’s go to agent, daring, fearless, and good with bureaucracies and paper-work… everything a government supervisor could ever ask for. “Miles is on the line, sir”

Frederick summoned all the gruffness he could, “Please bring him up on the static television, then all of you agents need to take a walk.” Not convincing, but effective… all of the agents stopped rhythmically pecking away at their keyboards, rose at once and stepped through an open door to left of the hallway Marie had exited through.

The static on the television began to fade, giving way to the correspondence module of M94. An unsettlingly bright green frame formed around the main viewing area and in the center of the viewing area was a face. Nothing was distinguishable about the face… the CIA was careful. They had setup the lighting so that all a viewer could see was a black silhouette of a face, rumor around the office had it that it took four engineers and six months of taxpayer money to get it just right.

“Hello, Frederick. Are you alone in the office?” bellowed a deep, shadowy voice.

“Good Morning, Miles. Yes, I am.” With that the lights behind the face kicked off revealing a face much too young for the job at hand… a face so young that puberty hadn’t even begun to warp it yet. Miles had fair olive skin and a quite symmetric face; his eyebrows were thin and well-kempt, tight lips and a strong-set jaw were his signature look and one could never quite tell if they should take him seriously or laugh at him for looking like a nine-year old. Today, Frederick giggled.

Miles voice shifted up three octaves as he pulled the voice disguiser away, “What’s so God-Damn funny, sergeant? Is it my disease? You think it’s funny that my body never ages? You think it’s funny that women are repulsed by the idea of touching a nine-year old’s penis?”

“Yeah. I do. Sorry, sir.”

Miles also had a good sense of humor. “I suppose it is. Here I am, fifty-eight years old and still the prostituted have to check my ID,” he cracked a smile. “What do you want, you useless sack of shit?”

“Just checking to see if mommy came to get you from school today, little boy.” Frederick was a man that knew when to play his cards… and that was a card he’d been saving all day. “Seriously though, we’ve landed a new recruit. First name: Margaret, Last name: Silverleaf, she goes by Marie. Think you can dig something up for me?”

“Sure, give me a second.” Miles clacked away at his keyboard while Frederick made jokes about booster seats and high-chairs. “Is this the Marie with the physical birth defects?”


“Here she is then, I’ll send her file over to you now. Looks like you’ve captured a fun one. Four warrants, three past convictions and an acquittal for a murder charge.”

“Well, you know how we like them. Scrappy, strong-willed, and on the verge of emotional breakdown. Any specific assignments we should begin training her for?”

Miles grinned. “Well, you know how much we at the CIA enjoy assassinating men of impeccable character, right? We’ve got just the character who needs a bullet-friend. Teach her Russian, snow-driving, walking with your legs stiff, and the history of vodka. That should be all she needs to fit in.”

“She’s going to Moscow?”

“Nope, London… but people never suspect someone who fits in with traditional Russian stereotypes. Something about being Russian just screams, ‘I’m trust worthy unless you have a bottle of vodka I can steal.’ If she learns to be Russian, she’ll be worry free in London. Some interesting notes here about her past, too.”

“You never cease to amaze, Miles. I owe you a drink sometime for all the little kid jokes… will apple juice be okay?”

“Go to Hell, Frederick.”

“See you there. Frederick, out,” and with that, the television went back to static and oscillating humming and Frederick took his coat from the coat rack and stepped into the bowling alley, it had been a long day.
I remember way back when I read chapter 1 that the story had this spooky, spy-movie feel to it.
Here, it seems a bit over exaggerated