Third Person
Ayla/Dove's Age: 5
Number One's age: 18
Location: Base
TW: descriptions of abuse/blood
Dove stumbles over her feet as two guards drag her from her cell. Even though she's still half-asleep, she can easily tell that they are taking her to Sir's office.
She's been dragged from her cell during the night before. It's not a new occurrence for her. Or any of the other kids.
A lot of the others are out on missions tonight. Perhaps she is being sent on one as well.
She trips over the long blanket that's clutched in her small hand. When the guards came to retrieve her, she refused to leave her only source of warmth behind, even if it is a thin, raggedy blanket.
The guard on her left swears under his breath and snatches the blanket from her, chucking it to the side.
Dove whimpers, trying to pick it up, but the guards force her forwards.
"Don't make this harder than it already is," one of the men orders. Dove can hear a tinge of sympathy in his voice.
He must be new. Only the new one feel pity on the kids. It'll rub off eventually. Their niceness never lasts long.
They force her into Sir's office, ordering her to sit on the chair in the middle of the room before leaving.
Dove hears the sound of the bolts in the door clicking shut as they do so.
Shivering, she sits on the chair.
The smooth surface is freezing from being placed right under an air vent. The chair is facing the large glass window that looks into the training area.
Dove stares at the glass, entranced by her own reflection.
Up until this moment, she had never seen herself before.
It's rare for any of the children to see themselves in a mirror. The idea of giving any of the young assassins glass is too dangerous.
She rises from the chair slowly and walks to the window, memorizing each part of her face and body.
Her hair seems too straggly, and her arms look like sticks. Her nose is a little too small and her forehead too large.
But it's her reflection. Or so she hopes.
She touches the glass, placing her hand against the cool surface. Unlike the chair, this kind of cool is refreshing. Relieving, almost. For the five-year-old, it's enough proof that the reflection in front of her is real.
If she can touch it, it's real.
The lights in the training room suddenly turn on, and the reflection of the small, skinny girl disappears.
YOU ARE READING
𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐚 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 ✍︎
General Fiction[ONGOING] [NOT EDITED] 𝑭𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍, 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓. Dove was raised in an Assassination Program. Kidnapped at only six months old from her loving family. She's only known a life of abuse and imprisonment. Little doe...
