ODYSSEY
The simulated rooster crows its electronic heart out as I groggily open one eye, glaring at the pixelated bird prancing on my nightstand.
"Oh, shut it," I grumble, swiping at the hologram with a lethargic hand.
It shatters into a thousand digital shards, mercifully silencing the dawn chorus. The room is filled with the scent of an artificial ocean breeze, which might have been pleasant if it didn't reek of desperation—a synthetic ploy to make mornings at Assassination University more bearable.
"Good morning, Dicey! Ready to tackle another day of calculated mayhem?" My AI assistant's voice is chipper enough to make me consider an upgrade to something with less personality.
"Define 'ready,'" I mutter, dragging myself upright.
As I sit on the edge of the bed, running a hand through my unruly black hair, I can’t help but think that signing up for a 6 AM covert operations class was a tactic in self-sabotage. But hey, nothing says ‘top of the morning’ like a deep dive into the art of silent takedowns and coded messages.
The dawn's light pierces the gap in the curtains, casting a judgmental glow over my cluttered room. Stiff from sleep, I stand and stretch, bones popping in protest. My limbs feel like a cat—one that had been unceremoniously thrown into a bathtub.
Feeling the fabric of my "I put the 'cute' in 'execute'" tee clinging to me, I peel it off and toss it into the hamper, where it lands atop a crumpled heap of clothes that bore witness to a week's worth of espionage education. The faded black shirt itself is a reminder of last night's late cramming session for the exam looming like a specter over my GPA.
Today’s the day we get our partner assignments—the thought alone is enough to make my stomach churn. And amidst the churn, there's a frothy mix of hope and dread at the thought of being paired with Lonnie. I imagine the algorithm in the partner-assignment system, a digital Cupid, possibly directing its arrow toward him.
Stop it, Dicey. This isn't a dating game, I scold myself, but my heart flutters at the mere mention of his name.
I shuffle across the cold floor, shunning the slippers that lay discarded, casualties of my nocturnal academic battles. Reaching the closet, I rifle through an organized chaos of tactical wear and the odd dash of color—a wardrobe schizophrenic in its nature, much like the life of an Assassin U student.
"Partner assignments, huh?" I mumble to the reflection in the mirror, a dubious companion mimicking my furrowed brow. "Because what's better than pairing trust issues with teamwork?"
The mirror offers no reply, and I’m grateful for it. Conversations with oneself before caffeine often led to existential crises, or worse, self-reflection.
After a quick shower, where the hot water does little to calm the swarm of butterflies—or should I say, trained killer butterflies—engaged in aerial combat in my gut, I return and scan my closet for a suitable replacement. My fingers graze over fabrics, pausing on a t-shirt that brings a smirk to my face. Emblazoned across the chest, the saying, "I'm silently correcting your stealth technique," a cheeky nod to the clandestine critiques we, as assassins-in-training, exchange in the silent corridors and shadowed classrooms of Assassin U.
Perfect for a day requiring a blend of humor and moxie.
The rest of my outfit is an ensemble carefully curated for comfort and agility. Dark jeans hugging my legs, flexible enough to allow for a high kick or a sudden sprint. My belt, a multipurpose accessory, holds various hidden compartments for lock picks and a compact blade, because one could never be too prepared.
I shrug on a fitted leather jacket and boots designed for silence, an assassin's lullaby. Each step a promise of stealth, a testament to the years of training honing my movements into whispers.
A knock at the door jolts me from my pessimism. "Dicey! You alive in there?" calls out a voice, laced with the sarcasm that comes all too easily at this ungodly hour.
"Barely," I shoot back, opening the door to reveal my friend, Katelynn, with her trademark grin plastered on her too-awake face.
Katelynn leans against the doorframe, her own outfit a blend of Assassin U's chic lethality. "Nice shirt," she remarks, her eyes twinkling with mirth. "Planning on giving out free advice today?"
"Only to those who can keep up," I sigh dramatically, meeting her gaze with a challenge.
My mind races—what if Lonnie can't keep up? What if he can and it ends up being my downfall? I push the thought away.
Lonnie's probably not even a morning person.
He's too laid-back.
Too cool.
That nonchalant shrug, that half-smile when he's aced a throw without even looking…
Ugh.
Her laughter is a melody dancing in the air, a rare sound in the chaotic halls of our university. "We'll see about that," she says, pushing away from the wall. "Ready for breakfast, or are you skipping straight to the partner lottery?"
"No way I'm facing that on an empty stomach," I reply, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
And speaking of empty, wouldn't it be just peachy if Lonnie and I could share something, anything... like a bland cafeteria muffin, simultaneously too dry and too greasy?
"Let's do this. Showtime at Assassin U," I declare, a gladiator entering the arena, where the lions are just as likely to be your lab partner as they are to eat you.
And Lonnie, well, he's the kind of lion who's both, a captivating predator with the eyes of an angel.
Dangerous combo, that.
As we walk, I can't help but let my mind wander to the 'what ifs' of the day.
What if Lonnie and I are paired for an assignment?
I can just picture it—our hands accidentally brushing while exchanging secret documents, the electric shock of contact, his eyes meeting mine, a silent conversation passing between us. Would he be the type to laugh when I trip over my own feet, or would he offer a steady hand, his touch a tether in the chaos?
But what if he's paired with someone else?
The thought is a bucket of ice water down my back, a sobering reminder that in the world of covert operations and calculated risks, not everything is within our control, least of all the whims of an algorithm.
We reach the cafeteria, the smell of overcooked eggs and undercooked bacon assaults my senses, a far cry from the artificial ocean breeze of my room. Katelynn is chatting about a new recon technique she read about, but my gaze is scanning the room.
It's not stalking if you're just strategically assessing your environment... right?
And there he is, Lonnie, looking like he's just rolled out of bed and into a photoshoot for 'Broody Assassins Monthly.' I wonder if he's as nervous about the partner assignments as I am.
Does he even care who he's paired with?
"Dicey, you in there?" Katelynn waves a hand in front of my face.
"Hmm? Oh, yeah, breakfast. Starving," I lie, my appetite having been assassinated by my own traitorous nerves.
We grab our trays and I steal glances between bites of rubbery eggs, trying not to be too obvious.
But it's difficult.
Lonnie's like a magnet, and I'm as metallic as can be.
"Today's going to be interesting," Katelynn muses, and I nod, silently agreeing.
Interesting, terrifying, potentially heart-wrenching—but that's life at Assassination University. Where every day is a lesson in survival, every moment a test of skill, and every glance in Lonnie's direction a battle between hope and the instinct to not get caught in the crosshairs of a crush.
Partner assignments, here we come.
"Yup. Today's gonna be great, huh?" I say to no one in particular, trying to convince myself more than anyone else.
Bring on the mayhem, I sigh internally as I chew.