Define Valentine- sequel to Define Spy (semi-long hiatus)

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

When I wake up, the first thing my eyes meet is the black mask hanging on the tip of the door knob. The empty circles that meet the door frame are in need of suspicious eyes to hide.

I turn on my side and squint up to the dusty old window sill dressed by blank curtains that sway still like ghosts. They're pushed to each side, letting in hazy lights of dawn. It's as if an artist had just came in and swooped their paint brush across the sheets that covered my body in subtle yellow, leaving another crease of sun against my cheek.

I blink as my neck is craned back, and face towards the ceiling, which seemed so distant. My ears tune out by engulfing pillows that I can barely hear the hollow footsteps that echo from the downstairs wooden floored kitchen.

I can tell it's Parker, who's probably brewing up some of that nasty dark liquid, or as most people like to call it, coffee. The TV must be on again, since it crackles remotely though there are no ears patient enough to listen.

Mr. Collins must already be at ICI. The sun has already perched above the stubby mountains that don't compare to the west ground. He'll be sitting at his extravagant wooden desk with maybe a mug on the side next to stacks of paper work, and the glowing screen of a computer that could make you go blind. He'll have the phone ringing almost every minute, the blank expression plastered on his face that I can never read, wondering if they ever annoy him.

Then there's me, who stares blankly at blinking red numbers that threaten me to get off my butt.

Ever since the mission, it felt weird to pass a mirror and see Serena Valentine. I knew that Ariana Castel was fake, that she was gone and merely a character who was given dimensions. But every time my eyes met a reflection, I saw Ariana staring back at me with her piercing blue eyes. But once my vision finally adjusted, they reappeared green.

It does seem a little funny, to look into a mirror and see a different person who wasn't actually considered a discrepant. I guess what jumbled my mind was that Ariana wasn't a real person. She was merely an asset, a figment, and a character created by simple thought. But simple thoughts go away easily. So why hasn't she?

The ceiling above me twisted as I shifted my body right-side up. Once my bare feet touched cold ground, instant shivers silently crawled up my spine. I ran my hands through tangled strands of what used to be pure black, but now resembled brownie mix, fading from dark brown to light in an odd illusion. It was still odd to glance down and see the color of darkening brown rippling along my shoulder blades, but I got used to it. Lola Grove said the dye was temporary. I guess we all have our fibs.

The bed creaks under me as I stand up onto the soles of my feet. One of my hands brushes against the desk that sits against the green wall. I don't have very many pictures on my walls. Above my desk is an array of three photographs. The material feels like postcards; they might even be postcards, although they're all painting and there is no returning address or name.

The first picture presents a grand statue of an angel the shade of gold, though the statue actually consists of a dulling and chalky white. In the background stands a grand palace with a wavering flag at the top. A line of horseback trail along one side of the palace, each man on a horse wearing bright red coats. In the foreground, small people are painted by a slender and steady hand as they seem o be walking through the streets, like any other ordinary city. On the left hand corner in careful inked handwriting reads: London, Buckingham Palace.

The second picture is quite like the first one. They both rim white thick borders, and must be painted by the same artist. A bridge stretches across the whole entire picture, and overlaps a shallow river. The legs of the bridge reflect off of the water's surface. A few boats float freely along the clear waves. Far off in the right corner stands a lanky building with the face of a clock exposed to the city, which is more buildings that rust and dust in a layer of decades. You could mistake it to be some castle from far away, or Hogwarts in Harry Potter, since it obtains the trading heights and superior flags. This one reads: London, Houses of Parliament.