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July 16, 1992
Vermillion splattered on the cream colored walls, a slickly red dimming the light from the wall lamp. It dripped down the walls at an excruciatingly slow pace, thick and almost black, while shards of iridescent glass covered the hard wood floors; splinters of wood from the broken coffee table in the middle of the living room. A man and a woman sat tied to the beige chairs in the living room, the chairs facing each other so their eyes were forced to meet.
In the beginning, anyway.
The woman, her tan skin and hair stained carmine — the rope that held her to the chair cut into the exposed skin on her body. Her lips were covered with a single piece of duck tape that spread from ear to ear. She lost all feeling in her hands. Her ankles were tied together. Her head was titled back and her eyes faced the ceiling. A bullet hole lodged itself in the middle of her forehead, blood decorating her skin like a landscape. It dripped down her face and into her still eyes. The wall behind her was sprayed with blood.
The man, her husband, sat forced in the chair across from her, tears streaming down his face as he stared at his dead wife. He jerked his body against the chair but it was no use. He was tired. The rope cut into his skin, creating leisure marks around his wrists. He screamed into the tape on his mouth but it muffled. Tears and blood mixed together on his face.
A pair of heels clicking on the floor caused him to tear his eyes away from his wife. He swiftly turned his head. A woman walked into the trashed living room. Her hair was short and bright white and she smiled evilly. There was a confidence to her. A confidence that was large enough to send three men to murder him and his wife. Her bright eyes were cold and dangerous and they glowed as if she was happy to see all the blood and carnage displayed before her. It was sickening.
"Oh, Daniel. I'm sorry it had to come to this."
Daniel Barlowe's screams muffled again. His face turned bright red from anger, his eyes holding enough rage to kill net if he wanted to. If he was able to.
He watched her move from his to his wife and he screamed at her again. The Handler clicked her tongue. She closed the woman's eyes and Daniel began to cry. Don't touch her. Don't fucking touch her! He would never get to see her warm eyes again. "She doesn't need to see this." Said the Handler with another malicious grin.
The glass on the floor crunched under her tall red heels. In her hand was a small handgun. The same hand gun that the assassins used to kill his wife. Daniel stared at it, the weapon seemingly taunting him, and he looked to her again with anger filled eyes.
The Handler looked around the blood covered room again. She released a small laugh. "This is strange. When my workers researched your family, I could have sworn there was three of you."
The man started to cry again and he fought against the tight rope. He whined and whined. He wanted so badly to escape and rip her head off, along with her men and the entire place where she came from. They killed his wife and they were going to kill him, but oh god, please don't let them touch her.
His sweet McKenna, little Kenna, his darling daughter. His daughter that was an exact replica of his wife, the same dark eyes and wild hair. The same mesmerizing laugh and contagious smile. Daniel knew this would be the last time he would hear her sweet laugh. She was hidden and promised to not come out under any circumstances. He wailed. His darling daughter would be an orphan and there was nothing he could do.
"Probably for the best," the white haired woman started again. She twirled the gun around her long fingers. "We wouldn't want her to have to see this, would we?"
Daniel closed his eyes and prepared himself. The last thing he thought of was his beautiful family. His beautiful Krista and his sweet McKenna. They shared so many memories in the short three years their daughter was born. McKenna was the best part of them. He cried for her. She would never get to know him or her mother and would never know how much they love her. He only had himself to blame. Why did he have to involve himself in this? He knew the risks but he did it anyway and now his family suffered for it.
With the last thought about his family, Daniel Barlowe was no more. Blood splattered on the wall like an abstract painting in a museum. He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes, seeing nothing but darkness. He was no longer thrashing.
The Handler smiled with satisfactory. Her ears rang slightly from the loud force of the gun. It was quiet again. A quiet she was used to. She clicked her red heels on the hard wood floor, walking slowly down the wall of the home. She looked side to side in every room until she heard the sound of faint breathing. She smirked and turned a sharp right. The Handler walked into the bedroom and followed the sound till she got to the edge of the bed. She fell to her knees and hunched over, looking under the bed and smiled brightly and the sight of a small child hiding. "Hello there."
Her big brown eyes stared at her with fear. Her small fist was placed in her mouth and she chewed on her fingers. She was no older than three years old. The Handler smiled fakely in attempt to calm her down. She reached her hand out. "Come here."
The girl slowly crawled out of the bed and into the light. Her brown eyes twinkled. The Handler picked her up gently into her arms and sat her on bed hip. "Why, hello there."
She didn't say anything and only continued to chew on her fist.
The Handler bounced her on her hip and smiled wickedly. "We're going to have so much fun, McKenna."
November 4, 1955
McKenna always found herself staring the mirror. It wasn't because she thought she was pretty, or that she cared enough to make herself look presentable, but because she was always examining her eyes. Her eyes were wide and dark, dark brown. They were a familiar pair of eyes, eyes that she longed to remember what they reminded her of. McKenna loved her eyes. They were her favorite part about her. She smiled at her reflection, finding a familiar feeling in the way her lips turned up and the fine lines around her mouth. And her dimples. Everyone loved her dimples. There was so many things about her that reminded her of something but she simply couldn't remember.
She stood in the bathroom in the Commission. It was 1955 and McKenna was thirteen years old. She had been at The Commission since she was a toddler. The year 1955 was the year The Commission decided to stay in. It was weird being stuck in a specific year. Even though time never went on, McKenna still grew older. The Commission was all she knew.
The door to the bathroom swung open and McKenna jumped, seeing a head of white blonde hair standing in the doorway. She smiled wickedly. "Is everything okay, little one?"
McKenna nodded timidly. "Yes."
The Handler smirked. "Good. Are you ready to start your training?"
