My Classified Life

Chapter Forty-Two: Three Words, Eight Letters...

 If the title and the theme song aren't enough of a hint, I don't know what is! Enjoy :)

I couldn't tell if it was hot in the house or I was just that nervous. Tossing and turning had done no good, I slipped in and out of sleep with the covers and sheets pushed to the end of the bed, my limbs spread wide. I stared at the ceiling for some time, forcing myself to stay in bed until the alarm went off. My hand reached the second it's shrill beeping filled the silence, quickly jumping from bed I took a cold shower. To both wake myself from the haze of the night and rid my body of the filmy sheen of sweat.

I tied my wet hair back into a tight bun and wore light clothing, I would have to stuff it inside my survival pack later. Dylan's door was still closed as I trudged downstairs at 5:30 in the morning, cracking a few eggs and scrambling them in a skillet. The early morning news was drowned out by my own mind, all the newscasters drilled on about their stories, even the most breaking news was dull to me. None of it involved Pierce Hamilton or his fortress of a mansion.

The blueprint of the mansion lay on the counter before me as I mindlessly tossed and turned the cooking eggs. I searched through the refrigerator to fish out some shredded cheese. After shutting the door I was startled by Dylan's form at the bottom of the stairs. His footsteps were silent behind me as I turned to spread the cheese over the eggs and let it melt.

"You're up early." his voice was still groggy from sleep. At least one of use had gotten some sleep.

"I like to be prepared, otherwise I'll fell like I forgot something." I admitted.

Dylan was standing over my shoulder, staring at the food I'd made. I quickly slipped by him to get some plates out of the cabinet. He promptly followed and retrieved the silverware, already knowing where everything was.

We didn't bother with the formality of sitting, not even on the couch. We stuffed our faced over the island, forks working like shovels. I slid the dishes in the washer after rinsing, and left to fetch my survival pack as Dylan found his own.

After making sure all lights were off and doors locked, we set out for the airport in his car. I watched my house disappear behind me again, the tree branches blowing in the breeze as the sun came over the horizon. It was a nice picture, a good memory to leave it by if I never came back.

Dylan could sense my stiffness in the car, my blank and forward stare. He turned up the radio, not saying anything. It was good to just let me be, I needed to think.

After flashing our new, fancy, fake passports we both purchased economy tickets. The woman at the counter eyed us both closely, Dylan didn't seem to notice. She saw the names, we shared no family resemblance whatsoever. Her watchful eyes studied us, trying to calculate what two people like us would be doing buying connecting flights to Russia, with only what looked like hiking gear. Were we lovers? Both under 18 years of age, alone, and traveling across the world. Whatever she thought about us, she kept it to herself.

"Have a nice trip, Miss Mitchell." her voice was girlish, and didn't seem forced, "And you too, Mr. Davidson." She told us both while handing over the tickets. Dylan gave her a curt nod and started away. I lingered a few seconds, trying to read her eyes, but they told me nothing. I caught up to Dylan quickly and walked beside him to the terminal.