It takes just under a week for Phoebe and Jade to pack up and move again. This time it's Warsaw, Poland which they decide to call home. Switzerland had become toxic thanks to Faye's unwanted appearance, and the Bureau and the CIA were still nipping at their heels. The Bureau was, at least. The CIA still lingered in the Alps, Agent Larson roaming the hills in search of the two.

One sunny afternoon, Phoebe and Jade sit in their condo, contemplating their next move. It's been exactly a month since their move to Poland. The two grow restless, tired of being on the run.

"I don't trust her one bit," Jade says.

"Neither do I. But what choice do we have? We can't hide from the Bureau forever," Phoebe replies. "Faye left us this email. If there's truly a split in the organization, this could be our chance to be forgiven for botching the Vorinov job."

"Yeah. Or it could be a trap. They could trace our IP address if we contact them."

"Maybe. But why would Faye lie to us? She'd snuck up on us that night. She could've easily killed us if she wanted to."

Jade gives a pause. "True...," she says. "But then, it's been a month. Maybe it's already too late."

"Yes. But maybe it isn't," Phoebe replies. She takes out her laptop, tapping away at the keys. "I'm going to write to them. I installed a software last week that should mask our IP address. I'm not saying we'll work for them. Just...feel them out a bit. See what they're all about."

Jade sits in silence. She's hesitant, but knows Phoebe always gets her way in the end. She knows best, anyhow. Why argue with her.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Jade leans back, lying on an ottoman chair. She stares up at the ceiling, watching the fan blades go around. They spin ever so gently, generating a calm, ghostly breeze. Maybe they're actual ghosts--ghosts of the people Phoebe and Jade have killed over the years. God knows there's plenty of them to go around. Jade winces. She's going to hell, of that she has no doubt. Phoebe can say what she wants, but Jade's no atheist. She's a good little protestant girl the way her grandfather taught her to be. She knows she's the height of hypocrisy, but the thought of her own death scares the living hell out of her. Life is no picnic, but hell must be worse than anything she can imagine. Angst washes over her. She gets up, heading to the bathroom down the hall.

She flips on the light, closing the door behind her. She eyes herself in the mirror. Her hair is frayed, dark circles forming under her eyes. The stress is getting to her. She wonders if Phoebe sees it, too. She splashes cold water on her face, drying off with a fresh towel hanging nearby.

She starts to reminisce, suddenly remembering the night they first met Faye. Jade immediately disliked her, getting bad vibes from her from the start. Her eyes were cold and distant, and she seemed to have no problem killing the congressman's daughter right before their eyes. The girl was so young; couldn't have been more than ten years old. Yet Faye did her in--killed her without even batting an eyelash. Jade could never do that. She and Phoebe killed many in their time, but not once did they take the life of a child. She recalled Faye's argument about morality, and she did have a certain point. After all, the adults they'd killed were all children themselves at some point. Still, it was different. Faye was evil.

Jade could never work with someone like that.

Suddenly, she caught herself. There's that damned hypocrisy sneaking in again. Evil? Who the hell was Jade to dub someone as evil? She'd taken more lives than the Gestapo. Maybe Phoebe was right. Maybe Faye was just trying to help them out. Jade scratches her scalp in frustration, returning to the living room.

"There. I shot them an email," Phoebe says. "Kept it short and sweet, and wrote it from an encrypted, disposable address. Now all we do is wait. Wonder how long it'll take for them to reply?"

"Phoebe... Are we seriously going back into the assassin game? I thought we were done with it for good," Jade says, eyeing the city through a tall, mullioned window.

Phoebe gives a pause. "...No. I told you, this is merely to test them out. I'm curious to see if Faye was telling the truth, or if this 'Dawn' of hers is simply a hoax."

"Somehow I doubt it is. Do you recall what she said to us that night?" Jade asks, turning to Phoebe. "'You don't just leave our line of work. You two were born to kill.' Do you believe her...?"

The room goes utterly quiet. After a long pause, Phoebe shakes her head. "...Of course not. We can stop if we want to. And we have. Don't forget, it was deception which led us into this business to start with. Were it not for the Bureau's trickery, we would never have become assassins. Which reminds me...I never told you of how I came to work for the Bureau, did I?"

Jade suddenly pauses, shaking her head. "...No. What happened?"

"...Well. It was just over two years ago...," Phoebe says, staring off at the distance.

Phoebe was fresh out of high school, and all too eager to leave it behind. She couldn't stand how artificial people were, forming their little cliques based on false friendships and paper-thin identities. It was all a high spectacle of judgemental muppetry; one Phoebe wanted nothing to do with. She usually went solo, flying above the radar yet keeping a close circle of friends. She was rarely bullied. The fact she was an attractive young blond girl played no small role in this. Boys often hit on her, but she always sloughed them off, finding their advances to be crass and repulsive. Some took it personally, garnering her a reputation as a 'cold bitch' by some of the school's budding misogynists. Not that Phoebe cared. She didn't put any stock into what lemmings had to say. She did her own thing, and cared little of what others thought of her.

As far as grades were concerned, she was an okay student. B's and C's mostly appeared on her report cards. She could've done better, but frankly, school bored her to tears.

Phoebe wasn't interested in math or history; her thoughts were on other things. She was a girl with high ambitions, and no one was going to stand in her way. From an early age, she often dreamed of becoming a police officer. The lifestyle intrigued her, and she liked the idea of cleaning up the streets with a badge and a gun. Her real parents died when she was nine in a failed robbery attempt. She had adoptive parents, and the Chicago neighborhood they lived in wasn't great. It wasn't a total slum, but close. You could see the ghetto looming just a few blocks down.

She decided to join the police force, entering the academy at a mere eighteen years of age. The training was brutal and harsh, and Phoebe caught no end of hell from her cadet colleagues. Most of them were men, treating her as one might expect from a male dominated field: with enmity and contempt. What's she doing here? She doesn't belong with us. Go be a waitress or something. You're too cute to be a cop. Policing is a man's job. Blah, blah, blah. Phoebe ignored them all, proceeding with several months of training.

In the end, she passed all the courses with flying colors. In fact, she was a prodigy, graduating far earlier than her peers. Training that normally took two years took Phoebe a mere five months to complete. This gained much respect from her colleagues, but some still whispered of how she must've 'banged the police chief' to get ahead. Not that it was true. She simply worked hard, and wasn't interested in foul rumors. She just wanted to make a difference; perhaps even spare a child or two the pain of losing their parents at an early age. She was issued a car and a badge, starting work for the Chicago Police Department at age eighteen.

The first few weeks were tough. Phoebe was given patrol duty of a particularly nasty part of town. It was a hive of drug dealers; of flashy pimps and cheap hookers. Phoebe went through the motions, busting and chasing ne'er-do-wells on an almost daily basis. Luckily, she wasn't alone. Her partner, Officer Hauser, also worked the beat with her. He was a decent man; never part of the 'let's tease the rookie girl' crowd back at the station. He was in his thirties. Strong. Brown hair. Firm eyes. Muscular arms and neck. He showed Phoebe the ropes, as he was an Officer with seven years of experience. And Phoebe welcomed the help. After all, Chicago was no one's idea of paradise.

Weeks rolled by, and it was more or less business as usual. A drug bust here. A domestic dispute there. Days passed normally--or as normal as a big city cop's days could be said to pass. Eventually, a large-scale raid on a crack den was organized. Phoebe took part in the bust, proving herself by shooting dead two armed suspects high on drugs. Her colleagues were impressed, soon treating her like one of the boys after that. She was finally warming up to the job.

But then, tragedy struck.

It was early in the morning when Phoebe and Hauser chanced upon two figures in an alleyway. It was during their routine patrols, the figures barely visible through the blue morning light. Phoebe slowed the car down to a crawl, she and Hauser eyeing the strangers from afar. Guy one appeared to be shouting, wearing a sports jacket and a pair of ripped jeans. Guy two said nothing, motionless in a gray trench coat. Suddenly, he drew a gun, shooting guy one square in the chest.

"Damn!" Hauser shouted, immediately reaching for his gun.

"That would be our cue," Phoebe replied, flipping on the sirens.

She sped to the side of the road, parking near the curb next to the alleyway. Hauser left the car, pointing his gun at the suspect from above the door. "Freeze! Hands in the air!" he yelled.

The stranger looked up from the man writhing beneath him. As Phoebe called for backup, she briefly locked eyes with the figure, immediately getting the chills. His eyes were eerily calm, demeanor as still as a statue. Suddenly, he vanished from sight, darting behind an old brick building. Hauser gave chase, Phoebe leaving the car and following him from close behind.

"Wait! This alley's too big! He could be hiding anywhere! We should wait for backup!" Phoebe said.

"No. He could be long gone by then," Hauser replied. "Stay with the injured man. I'm going in."

"Wait!" Phoebe said, watching her partner vanish from sight.

Phoebe peered at the darkness. The sun was coming up, but did little to illuminate the city's darker streets. She looked down at the wounded man, doubled over on his side in a pool of blood. He quietly muttered in pain, whispering incoherencies into the pavement. Eventually, his writhing ceased. Phoebe frowned, knowing full well what that meant.

Just then, a pair of shots rang out from the darkness. Phoebe turned her head, eyes wide as she raised her gun. She quickly shot to her feet, rushing toward the source of the sound. "Hauser?!" she yelled out, garnering no reply. She raced down the alley, splashing puddles and hurdling crates.

Eventually, she turned a corner, going pale at what she saw. There, lying twenty feet ahead of her was Officer Hauser. He lay dead on the ground, a pair of bullet holes through his head and neck. Phoebe stood in shock. She couldn't believe her partner was dead. She slowly began to shake, heart pounding in her chest.

From behind, a high pitched sound caught her ear; the sound of a foot accidentally tapping a glass bottle. Phoebe turned around, pointing her Glock 17 at a familiar sight. It was the visage from before; the suspect.

The bastard who killed her partner.

"Drop your weapon!" Phoebe yelled, the two pointing guns from ten yards away.

"...Hmph. You'd best quit while you're ahead, dear girl," the man replied, voice raspy and deep. "You're young. Don't throw your life away here in this back alley. The gentleman I killed got what was coming to him, as did your partner for trying to interfere."

"I said drop your weapon! I won't say it again!"

"Listen. The man I killed's name was Ronald Surry, a rapist who got off on a technicality. Our justice system's not perfect. Bad men go free, and innocent men often get the death penalty. When such instances occur, men like me are occasionally called upon to step in and set things right."

Phoebe fell silent. "...Who are you?"

"I am what's called a 'cleaner', and I work for a certain organization. I can't say more than that. If I did, I'd be as dead as Mr. Surry, or that unfortunate partner of yours. I apologize for that, by the way. I have the utmost respect for law enforcement. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Phoebe eyed the man with suspicion. His businesslike demeanor was more than unnerving. "Don't move a muscle. I'm taking you in."

The gentleman smiled. "I admire your diligence. But I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

Suddenly, he let off a shot. Phoebe cringed, dodging as she swiftly fired back. They exchanged a brief gunfight, the man soon strafing into an adjacent alleyway.

Phoebe quickly gave chase, heart pounding, adrenaline coursing through her veins. "Stop!" she yelled out, letting fly a wild shot. It missed, crashing into a brick building, chipping red off the walls. The man turned a blind corner. Phoebe followed, reloading her gun along the way. She saw the suspect enter an old building. She followed him inside, gun raised, wary of an ambush.

The building appeared to be a rundown housing project, long since abandoned by any legal tenant. Light barely came through the windows, illuminating the crumbling lobby and dilapidated stairs. Footsteps came from above. Phoebe raced up the staircase, gun pointed toward the second floor.

Upon arrival, she found herself at an intersection. There were three ways to go from here: left, right, or straight ahead. The girl warily eyed each route, knowing the suspect could've fled in any direction. Each hall posed a threat, and the entire building looked like it should be condemned. The wallpaper were decaying, dotted with red and yellow designs, the floors made of wood, chipped and warped from years of disuse. Phoebe studied each route, spotting footprints in the dust of the western hall.

She went in said direction, Glock firmly at her side. The building was dead quiet, save for the occasional street noise coming from outside. The suspect was lying in wait. She knew he was. But which room was he in? The hall had six doors, three on each side. Phoebe gave a pause. Wait for backup to arrive, a voice kept telling her. No. Hauser was right. By then, it could be too late. This guy was dangerous. Hauser had died trying to bring him in.

Phoebe wasn't letting this asshole go.

She approached the first door, finding that it was ajar. She gulped. The suspect could be inside, just waiting to open fire. Phoebe took a breath, at once kicking the door down, bursting inside.

She pointed her gun around, looking for signs of the perpetrator. She saw no signs of life. Just an old mattress, an empty bookshelf, a table, and a window with bent blinds. The bathroom was just up ahead. It had no door, and Phoebe could already see the shattered mirror above the sink.

As she edged toward the bathroom, fast footsteps came from down the hall.

"Fool!" the man shouted, quickly raising his gun.

But not quickly enough. Phoebe swung around, firing a shot before he even had a chance to aim. The bullet flew through the air, landing right between his eyes. He felt it enter his skull, his expression one of total disbelief. He sharply fell to the floor, blood running down the brown door behind him.

Phoebe approached his corpse, looking down at his motionless body. She stepped toward his gun, kicking it away from his hand. She pressed a finger to his neck, finding a pulse that wasn't there. "...Tch. Nice try," she said, giving a faint little smirk. Apparently, he'd left the door open on purpose. He lured her into a trap, but didn't count on her prodigious, catlike reflexes.

Phoebe returned to the streets, meeting with the backup units arriving on the scene. She explained all that had happened, the officers dismayed to learn of Hauser's death.

In the days that followed, the entire precinct became noticeably cold. They eyed Phoebe with disdain, few of her colleagues even saying a word to her. Phoebe stood stoical. She knew damn well what was going on here. They blamed her for Hauser's death. Despite everything; despite Phoebe killing the suspect; despite her brave actions and surviving against the odds, they still blamed her. She failed to protect him. Should've known we couldn't trust her. That's what you get when you send a woman, they all whispered. Phoebe quietly cringed. She couldn't stand their judgemental eyes.

"What?!" she yelled out suddenly in the offices. Her coworkers looked to her, the whole room not saying a word. "You got something to say? Then say it! Quit whispering behind my back, already! I'm tired of this! You can judge me all you want, but you weren't there! None of you were!"

"...Too bad," Officer Wilkins remarked.

"Yeah. If they'd paired him with someone good, maybe ol' Hauser would still be alive," Officer Flaherty added.

A dark laughter filled the room. Phoebe twisted her lip. She'd never felt so enraged in all her life. "...Good? Good?! I am fucking good!" Phoebe yelled. "I was the one who killed that guy who shot Hauser! I was the one who shot those guys during the raid! I was the one who passed the academy faster than anyone in CPD history! And yet you still hate me. And why? Because I'm a woman. You're all pigs! A bunch of pompous, male chauvinist pigs!"

"Phoebe...," Chief Thatcher said from across the room.

"No! I've had enough of this bullshit! I quit!" Phoebe yelled out, grabbing her badge and throwing it across the room.

"Heh. Good riddance...," Wilkins said, Phoebe storming out to a second round of laughs.

She entered the parking lot, slamming the station door behind her. It was late in the afternoon, but the overcast weather made it look much darker. Rain drizzled down from above, a chill wind moving in from the east. As Phoebe made for her car, a pair of footsteps caught her ear.

"I heard what happened in there," a sultry voice said from nearby.

Phoebe suddenly paused, turning to her right. "...Who are you?"

"I am Vilencia. And I've been watching you, Phoebe Lebelle...," she said. She slowly approached Phoebe, her black stilettos clicking the ground. "It's not fair, is it? Being a woman in a man's world."

"...Tch. You can say that again. But what do you mean, 'you've been watching me'? What are you talking about?"

"I meant just that. I've been watching your skills, and you have great potential," Vilencia said. "I come with a rare offer. One that can make you rich if money's your aim. No doubt you recall Reinhardt. That's the man you killed in the projects. You know. The one in the trench coat. He was one of our agents. A rather good one, at that. Always got his mark, yet you killed him without even breaking a sweat."

"...And I'd do it again. That bastard killed my partner. He was one of the few good men in the precinct."

"Yes. That was most unfortunate... Our bureau is often at odds with the law."

Phoebe eyed the woman. Her tone was beyond disingenuous. She stood of average height, slim and pale, tight figure, striking blue eyes. She wore a gray fur coat, accenting her charcoal dress and wavy black hair.

"...What do you want with me?" Phoebe asked.

"Simple. I want you to join us," Vilencia said. "I can tell you're filled with rage, and rightfully so. You don't belong in this world. You deserve something more. You live for adrenaline; for thrill of the chase. You are a woman of action. You'd do well in our business."

"...Yeah? And what business is that?"

"The business of killing." Vilencia replied bluntly. "You see, I am an assassin. As was Reinhardt, although he preferred the term 'cleaner'. I am less ambiguous. Killing is my trade, and I make a good living at it. Come. Work for the Bureau. We make our own hours, and are paid far better than civil servants."

Phoebe gave a long pause, looking to Vilencia in disbelief. She then flashed a smile. "...Oh. I get it, now. You're some kind of weirdo, huh? Look. I'm not interested. Quit following me. If I see you again, I'll arrest you myself."

"Oh? But it seems you're no longer a policewoman. Where's your badge...?" Vilencia asked wryly.

Phoebe cringed. "...Then I'll make a citizen's arrest. Now get lost. Don't contact me again," she said, walking off.

Vilencia folded her arms, smiling as Phoebe left the parking lot and drove away.

She traveled down the street, thunder booming in the distance as dark clouds loomed ahead. The rain steadily picked up, Phoebe flicking on her cruiser's windshield wipers. The traffic was stop and go. She was a cop in a squad car, and yet she lacked a badge. Her days in the force were over. She'd have to return the vehicle and her uniform soon. Phoebe gave a sigh. Her career was like fireworks: shining brightly, then burning out all too soon.

She then recalled Vilencia. What a curious character she was, claiming to be an assassin right there in the CPD parking lot. Had she really been watching Phoebe? It's possible. The city is full of damned weirdos, after all.

Phoebe returned to her apartment, idling away the rest of the night in silence. She sat on the couch in her underwear, having torn off her clothes in a fit of rage. That uniform made her sick. She couldn't stand wearing it another second. She stared blankly at the TV, mind not focused at all on the news anchor. Her thoughts were still at the station. She was mad at herself for making a scene like that. It wasn't like her to lose her cool, especially in front of so many people. Not that they didn't deserve it, but she still felt embarrassed, and worst of all, she'd have to return tomorrow. She may have quit the force, but she still had to clear out her locker and sign a few things. She wasn't looking forward to it. She sighed, eventually heading to bed.

The next day, Phoebe drove back to the precinct. She wore her normal clothes, her cop uniform sitting in the backseat. She stopped in the parking lot, leaving her squad car and shutting the door. She gave it one last glance, knowing it was the last time she would drive it. She warily approached the building, climbing the steps leading up to the front. She took a deep breath. Let's get this over with, she thought, prying open the doors.

The girl stepped inside. At once, she went utterly pale. She couldn't believe what she saw. Blood was everywhere, painting the walls, bodies strewn all over the place. Some were slumped at their desks, some on the ground, looks of terror stuck on their face. Phoebe stood in shock, the stench of death hanging thick in the air. They were all dead. Every last one of them. Flaherty. Wilkins. Chief Thatcher. Even Cadet Evans, the raw recruit. All of them lay dead, riddled with multiple gunshot wounds.

"...My. What a slaughter you've made," a voice said. As Phoebe swiveled around, Vilencia suddenly threw a gun. Phoebe raised a hand, instinctively catching the MP5.

"...What?! Me?!" she asked nervously.

"That's right, my dear. Your fingerprints are all over the murder weapon!"

Suddenly, Phoebe paused, looking down at the gun in her hand. She then looked to Vilencia, noticing her long, black evening gloves.

Phoebe balled a fist. "Bitch!" she yelled out, raising her SMG. She pulled back the trigger, but all it did was click.

"Oh, my... Looks like I used the entire clip. In fact, I used several. There were lots of maggots in here," Vilencia said. "What's wrong, dear? You look pale. I thought you'd enjoy this outcome."

Phoebe eyed the carnage. Most of the dead she didn't care about, but the police chief wasn't such a bad guy. "...Enjoy? You thought I'd enjoy being framed for this? For a mass shooting of police? You must have some screws loose."

"I meant enjoy your revenge," Vilencia said. "They all laughed at you. And now who's left to laugh? You. This was your slaughter, after all. Unless you come work with us."

Phoebe gave a cringe. "...I will not be coerced."

Vilencia shrugged. "Who said anything about that? I'm merely offering you a job, here."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I'll leave you alone. Though you may find it difficult to avoid the police from now on. Your prints are all over the gun, and even if you got rid of it, there'd be little doubt as to who did the killings. 'Policewoman slaughters entire precinct after suffering from gender discrimination'. Talk about poetic justice. Makes a nice headline, don't you think?"

"Damn you!" Phoebe yelled out, throwing the weapon her way. The woman easily dodged, holding a smirk as Phoebe charged forward. She threw a heavy punch. Vilencia caught it, twisting her arm and pinning her over a table.

"My. So feisty. But be careful... I could break your arm in three different ways from here."

"What do you want from me?!" Phoebe screamed.

"I want nothing. Just your skills. Or rather, the Bureau does. You killed one of our agents, and we need a replacement. You would do well in a pinch. In fact, a girl like you could go far in our business. Now come. Join with us. Or shall I leave you a hopeless fugitive?"

"...And that was the end of that," Phoebe says. "I agreed to join the Bureau that very day. I knew I had no choice, and didn't very well want that crazy bitch to break my arm."

"I see...," Jade replies, intrigued by the tale. "And...what became of Vilencia?"

"I don't know. I never saw her again after that. She introduced me to Johann, and the rest is history. There was a rumor she died on a job in Syria, but it could've been false. For all I know, she could still be alive."

"She sounds like a dangerous person."

"That's putting it mildly. Her grip was fierce. I have no doubt she could've killed me with her bare hands."

"How old was she?"

"Mmm. Mid twenties. Maybe older. I got the sense she'd been doing this for awhile."

"...Hmm. If the Bureau really was split, I wonder if Vilencia's with the defectors or not?"

"Who knows. Or cares, for that matter. I sent that email out of curiosity. If I never saw her again, it would be too soon."

Eventually, day turns to night. The girls lay low, passing time in the usual ways. Phoebe reads a book, Jade cleaning her guns with the utmost carefulness. Though no longer an assassin, she still treats each weapon as though it were her own child. And for good reason, too--with the Bureau and the CIA after them, she knows they may well have use of them again. She cleans Phoebe's weapons as well, sliding a moist cloth down the barrel of her MP5.

"...Wait. Was this Vilencia's gun?"

"Indeed--the very same she used to kill my colleagues with. I've been using it ever since. Keep it as a sort of memento."

Jade gives a pause. "...Don't you feel weird? Killing people with the same gun she used on your coworkers?"

"Kind of. But then, those suckers aren't cheap. The silenced variety can run in excess of $3,000."

"Heh. That's nothing. Dragunovs are over $10,000. You could get a used one for cheaper, though."

"True. But SMGs burn through ammo a lot quicker, which is an added expense...," Phoebe replies.

Just then, the laptop rings. They turn to it, Phoebe opening up the device. She gives a dry smile. "...Well. What do you know. Looks like they've replied, already."

Dear Phoebe and Jade,

So glad you've decided to contact us. Have you made a decision yet? Or do you write out of sheer boredom? Either way, it's good to hear from you again. Nice to know you're still alive. That's more than some of us can say.

As you have no doubt heard, there's been a rift in the organization. Much blood has been shed. You've caused quite a stir, though in fairness it's been brewing for awhile now. The higher ups have been squabbling, fighting over this and that regarding how to deal with clients. It's all a bunch of nonsense. Bureaucratic drivel. You know how old men are. They've been bickering for years--your leaving was merely the catalyst for the split.

Now, we're a group divided: Bureau and Dawn. Hunter and hunted; darkness and light. Half have sided with the Bureau. They are the loyalists--the ones that want you dead. The other half sided with us. In fact, we have slightly more members, but most are Novices. The loyalists have stronger agents, but with Elegy on our side, the tide would turn in our favor. We could also offer you protection from the Bureau. There are many of us. By yourselves, you're rather exposed.

Just give it some thought. Faye says you've quit being assassins, but one never quits our line of work. Death is our only escape. But then, you knew that already...

D

Phoebe raises a brow. "Did we, now?" she asks, eyeing the screen.

"The tone of this letter is different. It seems less formal than the ones before," Jade says.

"You're right. Which suggests we are indeed dealing with different people, here. But then, it could be a trick; an elaborate ruse to lure us out into the light. I'm still not convinced. For all we know, Dawn's a farce, and the Bureau's still operating business as usual."

"...I'm not so sure about that. Faye let us go, and the entire email smacks of desperation. They're almost begging us to join. I dunno, Phoebe. Maybe we should take them up on it."

"Heh. I'm afraid I'll pass. I've had a change of heart recently, especially after reading this email. I have no interest in returning to life as an assassin. The lifestyle's too stressful, and we're already living on borrowed time. We've made enough money. Let's just live out the rest of our lives in peace."

Phoebe shuts the laptop, getting up and giving a stretch. She then wanders down the hall, heading off to bed for the night.

Jade remains wide awake. She sits on the couch, remembering the letter. She quietly mulls things over, torn inside over what to do.

On one hand, Phoebe is right. They've made enough money to live comfortably for the rest of their lives. They needn't ever go back. In hindsight, it's a miracle they've even survived this long.

...On the other hand, a fire still burns inside of Jade. She openly denies it, but the urge to kill still remains. More specifically, to kill Esther, the one responsible for luring her into this life to start with. Not that she's all to blame. After all, killing Officer Jones was Jade's doing.

The girl sits lost in thought. As 1:00AM rolls around, she eyes Phoebe's door from across the hall. She sees that the light's gone off.

Jade turns on the laptop, swiftly opening the inbox with the letter inside. She takes a deep breath, considering what to write back.

Dawn

This is Jade. I may be interested in joining you, after all. I can't say the same for Phoebe, however. She's less inclined to trust you, as she's wary of your intentions. She thinks this could be a trick, and shows no signs of wanting to return to our line of work. I'm sick even writing this, as I feel it's a betrayal of her trust... Still, I can't keep living like this. I'm tired of running away. Please...accept me into your ranks!

Jade

The girl gives a pause, finger lingering above the 'send' button. In a flash, she clicks on it, muting the laptop moments later. She sits in total silence, watching the minutes tick by on the clock. She can't believe what she's done. She'll never be able to look Phoebe in the eye again. Still, Jade wants her revenge. She's tired of running, and knows Dawn's her best chance at finding Esther.

It doesn't take long for the organization to write back. Apparently, they're eager to speak with them. The laptop doesn't sound, but Jade notices the red notification.

Jade,

I am impressed. I knew at least one of you had some sense. I'm glad you've decided to join us. Consider yourself an official member of Dawn. It's good to have you on board, although I am saddened to learn that just half of Elegy will be joining us. It seems you're as split as the Bureau. Still, you're the stronger half, Jade. Faye thinks so, and so do I.

We need to set up a meeting. That way, your induction can be complete. Don't worry--Phoebe needn't know of our correspondence. We don't know where you are, but we imagine the two of you are still living together. Meet us in Amsterdam, Netherlands. A place called 'The Golden Ox Tavern' located in the red light district. It is a public place, so you should feel secure. Check the attached file for further details.

D

Jade eyes the file, committing the time and location to memory. She then deletes the email, making sure she's thoroughly covered her tracks. She then turns off the laptop, riddled with guilt as she heads to bed for the night.

Several days later, Phoebe arrives in the living room in a blue coat and fur boots. "I'm going out for awhile."

"...To where?" Jade asks.

"Downtown. Do some shopping. Maybe check out the sights. I'm sure it's safe by now. I'd invite you along, but I know how much you hate to shop."

"Okay. Just...be careful. Don't go up any dark alleyways."

Phoebe smiles. "Yes, mom," she says, turning and taking her leave.

After she's gone for awhile, Jade reaches behind the couch. She finds an airplane ticket, eyeing the departure time to Amsterdam. Exactly one hour from now. The girl gets dressed, packing some things before leaving the apartment. Holland's not far off.

Jade hopes to be there before nightfall.

Meanwhile, Phoebe travels the streets, window shopping without actually buying anything. She takes in the sights of Warsaw, an endeavor she's been rather hesitant to do until now. Even now, she stays on her guard, wary of any and all signs of dangers or threats. A gun lurks down her coat. It's risky being outside, but Phoebe can't stand staying indoors all day. She eyes the vibrant scenery; the antique buildings and ancient waterways. The city is alive with color. One could be forgiven for thinking they've wandered into a Lego land. It's not quite as cheery as that, though. Just beneath the surface, a certain dreariness lurks underneath. One that speaks of darkness; of a time when the Nazis invaded Poland, ravaging the city and kick starting WWII. Warsaw's rebuilt nicely since then, but evidence of the war can still be seen if one looks closely enough.

Amsterdam's not much different. Same architecture. Same exuberance. Same free-spirited population. It's a much smaller town, but just as alive and bustling with activity. On a long and busy street, Jade moves through the crowds, looking around for The Golden Ox Tavern. She wears a white tank top, her blue jean shorts barely visible from under her shirt. She's suitably dressed for spring. Amsterdam's usually cold, but this year has been warmer than usual. The girl wanders the city, white sneakers traversing gray walkways and cobblestone streets.

Eventually, she finds her destination: a cozy little tavern nestled near the waterfront. It's medieval in design, looking hardly out of place amidst a sea of similar buildings. She warily goes inside, immediately greeted by noise and cigarette smoke. She walks through the crowded pub, safe in the knowledge that there's many people around. It's unlikely to be a trap--it would be foolish to cause a stir in such a crowded place. She takes a seat at the bar, looking around for her supposed contact. Seconds tick by. Then minutes. Tension mounts. She hates sneaking around behind Phoebe's back like this.

After a short while, a tall man approaches Jade from behind. He moves as quiet as a cat. As his shadow appears over the table, Jade fills with a sense of dread.

"...Ah. There you are," a familiar voice says. The girl turns around, immediately surprised by who she sees.

"...Owen!" she replies. "It's you! I haven't seen you in over two years."

"Indeed. You're looking well, Jade," he says, taking a seat next to her. "I'm glad you've decided to join us. We are in desperate need of good agents. It's too bad that Phoebe can't come, though. Are you sure you can't convince her to join?"

"...No. I know her. Her mind's made up. And trust me: once that's done, there's no going back," Jade says. "But what's going on with the business? I know there's a split and all, but what does that mean? Are you still handing out contracts?"

"Yes. In fact, a rather big one's come up--so big, in fact, that no one wants any part of it. It's yours if you want it. Consider it your initiation into Dawn."

"I'll take it!" Jade replies, surprised by the quickness of her own response.

Owen smiles. "Very good," he says, sliding her a small envelope.

Jade picks it up, suddenly feeling a bit nostalgic. "...Heh. This is familiar. It's like that diner in Modesto all over again."

"Indeed," Owen replies. "And just like back then, I'm afraid I must now take my leave. I'm meeting with another agent. A potential new recruit--one you may very well have met."

"...Oh? And who is that?" Jade asks.

"I'm afraid I can't say. Confidentiality and all of that. Anyway, do take care. And stay alive, Jade--an agent like you is far too good to waste."

"Owen...," Jade replies, going a faint shade of red.

The gentleman takes his leave, leaving Jade alone at the bar. She eyes the white envelope, all too eager to know what's inside. The girl quickly leaves the bar, rushing down the street toward a string of hotels. She quickly rents a room, heading inside and tearing open the letter.

Jade

First of all, on behalf of all of us, let me say how delighted we are to have you back. We extend our protection to you, against both the Bureau and the meddlesome CIA. Our network of operatives is intact, although it is not as strong as it used to be. The split's effected us all. But Dawn's not the only one suffering--the Bureau's suffering, too.

But enough of all that. It's been awhile. I'm sure you're itching for a job. And, as luck would have it, we have a particularly high profile case.

As you may have heard, there's been unrest recently near the Gaza-Israel border. Palestinians have been protesting, demanding that Israel return their stolen lands to them. There's nothing new about that, but the recent slaughter of unarmed protesters by Israeli forces has sparked outrage. Ninety Palestinians are reported to have been killed, although we have it on good authority that this number has been downplayed.

Our client, a wealthy Iranian imam, claims that the death toll is actually closer to 630. Zero casualties have been reported on the Israeli side, though one soldier did admit to having stubbed his toe in the chaos. Our client insists rich Jews are to blame, paying off media outlets around the world to lessen the numbers.

Whatever the case may be, we have a contract for a one 'Elijah Mendelstern', leader of the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF). There's a $50,000 bounty on him, as well as an additional $5,000 for any additional soldiers killed. Be careful with this one, Jade. He's a high ranking general, and will be under heavy guard.

Best of luck to you. Burn this letter when you're done.

D

Jade sits on the bed, reading Dawn's letter in silence. Again, she notices its friendlier tone, as well as its lengthiness. It includes many details which earlier letters did not, seeming to suggest that Dawn genuinely cares for her. She gives a slight blush. Maybe it's just desperation on Dawn's part, but somehow, Jade feels this is where she belongs. She walks over to a table, folding the letter and placing it in a red ashtray. She then strikes a match, lighting the piece of paper on fire. She gives a wry smile, flames dancing in her eyes. She has her marching orders.

She can already feel the rush.

Meanwhile, back in Warsaw, Phoebe returns from a day in the city. She places one bag on the table. She's proud of herself. Normally, it takes a few hired men to help carry her shopping bags back to the house. She takes a look around. "...Jade?" she says, finding the place empty. She checks each of the rooms, finding that Jade is nowhere in sight. Suddenly, she tenses up. Did the Bureau find her? Or worse, the CIA? Phoebe draws her gun, wary of any and all signs of danger. She double checks the apartment, again finding no one in sight. Then, in Jade's bedroom, she finds a note tucked under her pillow.

Dear Phoebe,

I'm sorry, but I can't go on like this. I'm afraid that Faye was right. I am an assassin, and I must return to what god put me on Earth to do. For awhile, I tried to deny it; tried to deny the urge to kill. But I realize now that it was useless. I am a killer, just as the lord made me to be. 'Thou shalt not kill' is a delusion, for the bible was written by man. I know god wants me to kill. I speak to him at night, and he tells me to return to my necessary duties. I'm sorry for leaving like this, as well as for contacting Dawn behind your back. You deserve much better than this. You were my one true friend, Phoebe. I still consider you as this. I hope my departure doesn't anger you, but I feel it is for the best. Thank you for being a friend, Phoebe. Thank you for putting up with me.

Your eternal friend,

Jade

Phoebe stands in shock, instinctively tightening her grip on the paper. She gives a gentle sigh. "Oh, Jade... What have you gotten yourself into now?"

She flips the paper around, finding no further information or contact details. Quickly, she finds her laptop, opening her inbox and taking a look inside. The list is totally empty, just as it's been for a number of days. She then gives a pause, thinking back to Jade's letter. '...I'm sorry for leaving like this, as well as for contacting Dawn behind your back...' Phoebe eyes the recycling bin. She gives it a click, bringing up recently deleted emails. Sure enough, there's Jade's letter, sitting at the top of the 'Sent' column. Phoebe clicks on it, reading it through with stoical eyes.

"...Hmm. Amsterdam, is it?" she says, once more grabbing her coat.

Several days later, a group of Israeli soldiers hang out at IDF headquarters. They sit around the lobby, discussing the recent border protests.

"...Oh, man. You shoulda seen it. I must've shot at least ten of those terrorist scum," Gabe says.

"Heh. That's nothin'. There were thousands of injuries... I'll bet I hit at least fifty with this baby," Shlomo says, raising his rifle with a grin.

Jeremy gives a frown. "...I dunno, you guys. It's not like they're all terrorists. Maybe we went a bit overboard."

Silence fills the air.

"...Eh? What's wrong with you, Germ? You some kinda Arab lover, now?" Blake asks.

"Yeah. You gonna suicide bomb us?" Gabe asks, the trio laughing at him.

Jeremy shakes his head. "You guys are dicks," he says, getting up and leaving the room. He heads to a hall bathroom, quietly entering a stall and standing in silence. He enjoys the peace and quiet.

But it doesn't last for long.

Suddenly, loud popping sounds come from down the hall. Jeremy tenses up. He knows what that means. Gunshots--and not far off by the sounds of them. The young man quietly gulps, realizing he doesn't have his gun with him. He wonders what to do. He considers staying put, but figures the others may need his help. He warily leaves the stall, creeping back out into the halls.

He looks in both directions, finding nobody in sight. Carefully, he treads down the hall, suddenly aghast by what he finds. There, lying in the lobby are his pals: Blake, Gabe and Shlomo; each of them shot dead. Jeremy's eyes widen. It must be a terrorist attack. But here? At IDF headquarters? He thought for sure this place was safe.

Quickly, he turns around, racing back out into the halls. He reaches an elevator, frantically pushing the red button. It takes too long for him. He runs off again, this time heading for the stairwell. He races down the steps, taking two and three at a time.

Eventually, he arrives on the first floor. As he flings open the door, he's suddenly horrified by what he discovers. Scattered throughout the room are dead bodies, riddled with holes and lying in pools of their own blood. Jeremy walks through the mess, trembling as he turns and runs for the front door. Somewhere along the way, he stops, shocked by one of the dead.

"...Mendelstern!" he gasps.

He steps back, stumbling over a corpse. As he turns to run away, a lone girl eyes him from the entrance.

"...Who...who are you?! A terrorist?!"

"...Mmm. Guess so. After all, you look pretty terrified," Jade says, shooting him dead.

Jade quickly leaves the building. As she rushes outside, sirens sound from the dusty streets. A green jeep appears from the east, squealing to a stop on the pavement near the headquarters. Two men are inside, one at the wheel, the other standing at a mounted machine gun. The gunner aims for Jade. As he opens fire, Jade cartwheels to the right, dodging out of the way. She then returns fire, riddling the gunner with holes with her trusty TEC-9. Blood flies everywhere. His body slumps over, rolling off the jeep and onto the ground. The driver draws his gun. Jade fires again, filling his chest with a three-round burst. Two more jeeps approach. Jade eyes them coldly, swiftly leaping into the dead men's jeep. She boots the driver from the seat, his body slamming the ground as she floors the pedal, screeching away.

Sirens wail behind her, no less than three armored vehicles hot on her trail. Her heart pounds in her chest, endorphins flowing as her tank top flaps in the breeze. She hears gunshots from behind, stray bullets hitting the jeep's frame, filling the air with loud noise. Jade doesn't flinch. Her eyes are colder than ever before. She swerves left and right, avoiding waves of bullets coming from behind. Carefully, she aims back, firing a volley of rounds at her pursuers. A bullet strikes one of the driver's. He veers to the left, barrel rolling into a ditch. The vehicle then flips over, breaking the gunner's body like a cinder block snapping an upright pencil.

Suddenly, Jade hangs a left, turning onto a street in downtown Tel Aviv. She whizzes past pedestrians, some of them cheering the soldiers on as they chase down the supposed 'terrorist'. Again, Jade doesn't waver. Her eyes remain stoic, focusing solely on the task at hand. She continues flooring the pedal, trading shots with her fast and diligent pursuers. Shots bounce off of metal, denting the vehicles as they continue to race through the streets. Eventually, Jade manages to pop one of her pursuer's tires, causing his jeep to spin out, killing three pedestrians walking the streets.

Jade looks back, realizing the only car left is a big beige hummer. It barrels down the street, hounding Jade like a pit bull chasing a feral cat. Jade gives a cringe, knowing that said vehicle is heavily armored. It's practically a miniature tank--a feeble TEC-9 won't so much as scratch it. Jade makes a sharp a left. One advantage she has is that her vehicle's much faster than her assailant's. She manages to speed away, but soon hears additional sirens, realizing the Israeli police force has joined the fray.

A patrol car appears from the left, an officer opening the window and quickly opening fire. Jade gnashes her teeth, barely crouching in time as a hail of bullets flies overhead. She spins the wheel to the left, slamming the patrol car hard, causing it to lose balance. She then follows up, killing the passenger and the driver in a burst of shots.

Suddenly, a second car appears from behind. It swerves to the right, tailing Jade from the five o'clock direction. She raises her SMG, spraying the vehicle with another volley of rounds. They manage to dent the windshield, but the bulletproof glass doesn't shatter. The driver shoots back, missing Jade by a few inches.

The girl continues to drive, the persistent officer hounding her at every turn. Jade eyes the rear view mirror, noticing the mounted machine gun perched at the back. Suddenly, she feels remiss. Phoebe would be great back there, filling the enemy with holes as Jade mans the wheel. The duo made a great team. But now, those days were over. There's no relying on Phoebe anymore. Jade must fend for herself. As her TEC-9 clicks, she realizes it's out of ammo.

She tosses the weapon aside, reaching back for her second firearm. She produces a Desert Eagle, a large, gas-operated weapon with immense killing power. She points it at the cop. He swerves to avoid the shot, but Jade notices this, adjusting to compensate. She fires a single round, the gun's recoil causing her to nearly drop the thing. The bullet tears through the air, breaking through the damaged glass, digging deep into the officer's skull. His vehicle hops a curb, crashing into a telephone pole and bursting into flames.

Jade continues to drive, maintaining a speed of well over 90mph. She spots a gate up ahead, realizing it's the famous Gaza-Israel border so often beset with violence. Today would be no different. Jade steps on the gas, suddenly barreling through the fence at full speed. She breaks through the gates with ease, crowds of protesters cheering her on as she blazes past. They pour into the streets, chaos breaking out between Israelis and Palestinians once again.

Jade eyes the mirror, a dry smile on her lips as she watches the ensuing carnage. It's moments like this she lives for; when she's dancing with death, avoiding bullets by mere fractions of an inch. Killing is her muse. It's what lights her fire--perhaps even turns her on. It's her fate to be an assassin. And who is she to deny her fate?

The girl keeps driving on, eventually reaching the infamous Gaza Strip. She slows her car to a crawl, reducing her speed so as not to attract attention. Not that it was working--an unveiled woman in a jeep riddled with bullet holes inevitably turns a few heads. Jade eyes the ruined city, appalled by the ravaged landscape and the damaged buildings. Bystanders dot the land, men sifting through rubble, women covered from head to toe in black veils. Jade looks on in shock. She'd heard Gaza was bad, but seeing this made her wonder if it was indeed the worst place in the world. She'd come here to flee her pursuers. Now, she wondered if she wasn't better off toughing it out in Tel Aviv.

Back in Amsterdam, Phoebe wanders the streets, searching around for Jade. She arrives at The Golden Ox Tavern, finding the establishment mostly empty. It's still early in the morning, and the usual patrons have yet to arrive. Phoebe approaches the bar. "...Hey. You," she says to the barkeep. "Have you seen a girl in here? Cute? Short hair? Five six? American?"

"...Yes. I've seen many in here like that," he replies. "Customers from all over the world come in here. Why do you ask?"

"I'm looking for my friend. She came to this city, unbeknownst to me..."

The bartender flashes a grin. "...Yes. Many come to Amsterdam in secret--especially to the red light district."

Just then, a pair of footsteps sound from nearby. They tap the wooden floors, stopping from ten feet away. "...Phoebe. We meet again," a familiar voice says.

Phoebe eyes go wide. She turns, spotting a familiar face. "...Johann!"

He gives a smile. "Greetings, Feebs. It's been too long. You're looking lovely as usual."

Cordelia folds her arms. "...Hmph. You've lead us on a merry little chase these past couple of weeks."

Silence fills the air, the tavern empty save for the four of them. After a lengthy pause, the trio draw their weapons, pointing guns at each other as the barkeep's jaw drops.

"No! Please! No violence in here!" He reaches under the table, producing a sawn off shotgun. Phoebe raises a brow, swiftly shooting the gentleman dead. As she returns her aim to Johann, he fires a shot, blasting the Beretta clean out of her hand.

"Tch!" Phoebe says, gripping her wrist in annoyance.

"Oh, my... Allowing me to disarm you like that? You're slipping, Phoebe," Johann says whimsically.

"Shut up," Phoebe replies. "If you're gonna kill me, just hurry and get it over with."

"With pleasure!" Cordelia says, closing one eye and taking aim.

"No," Johann replies, suddenly lowering her gun.

"...What?!" Cordelia says, watching him lower his gun, as well.

"The Bureau is suffering, Phoebe," Johann says. "You are a skilled assassin, as well as a practical woman. We need you back with us. We know you didn't kill Natasha, and that the betrayal was Jade's idea."

Phoebe falls silent. "...And what if it was?"

"Then you aren't to blame," Johann says. "Jade's joined with the rebels. They have a powerful agent in her. But it's useless. Dawn is doomed. They don't have the skills or the manpower to outlast the Bureau. Come. Return to us. All will be forgiven, and you'll resume your place as one of our top agents."

Phoebe gives a pause. She has no interest in rejoining, but knows their network of spies could be her best chance at finding Jade. "...Tch. Very well. Looks like I have no choice," Phoebe says.

Johann smiles with relief. "...Good," he says, holstering his Colt .45.

"...What? Are you joking?" Cordelia asks. "After all this time, we're just gonna let her return just like that?!"

"Indeed," Johann replies, patting her head as she gives a blush.

Phoebe raises a brow. "...And who is this? Your latest toy? It's unwise, Johann, playing with women's hearts. Someday, it's bound to bite you in the ass."

Johann shrugs. "...Maybe. But you know me: I like to live dangerously."

"Oy! Don't patronize me!" Cordelia says, balling a fist as Phoebe and Johann smile at each other.

"Anyhoo, check your inbox," Johann says. "You'll probably have to do the Bureau a favor to make up with them. Probably an ugly favor--as in a contract no one wants. But do it. Tracking you down was a big expense, and we need to make sure you're serious about rejoining us."

"...What are you two gonna do?" Phoebe asks.

"What do you think?" Cordelia asks. "Keep tracking that friend of yours down."

Phoebe gives a pause. "...I'll come with you."

"No," Johann replies. "This is something we've gotta do. You're too close to the situation, and undoubtedly have lingering affection for Jade."

"But...I could help you search. I know her habits better than anyone else."

Cordelia smirks. "...And then what? Suppose we do find her. Would you be willing to pull the trigger on that traitorous friend of yours?"

Phoebe stands in silence. Her condescending tone makes her want to rip her head off where she stands. "...Indeed," Phoebe replies. "Don't forget: Jade's blunder made me a fugitive, too. Life on the run has been hell, and it was all her fault that we got expelled in the first place. We had a falling out. In fact, we damn near killed each other that day in Russia. Trust me, Johann: I have no affection for that woman. Let me come with you. I want revenge against her, as well."

Johann and Cordelia pause, trying to read Phoebe's intentions. "...Hmm. We'll think about it," Johann says. "For now, make good with the Bureau. Then we'll know your intentions are true."

With that, the two take their leave, Phoebe left alone with the dead old bartender. She soon returns to her hotel, opening her laptop to find a red notification.

Phoebe

Welcome back. It is good you've decided to return from this defection business. We hear you wish to find Jade. We will assist you in this, but first, we require you to complete a task.

Over in Israel, chaos has erupted in the streets. The border has been destroyed, and Palestinian protesters are flooding in by the thousands. This does not please our client, a wealthy Jewish businessman from Jerusalem. The attack on the border was unprecedented, and was the deadliest mass killing Israel's seen in years. Dozens of soldiers were killed, including the leader of the IDF Elijah Mendelstern. This makes our client believe that the attack was carried out by the Islamist group known as 'Hamas'.

Our client seeks removal of two high ranking Hamas warlords: 'Yusef Rashin' and 'Mustafa al-Hadid'. Both reside in Gaza, and both have openly declared jihad on Israel. Be very careful with this: The violence is spreading, and the number of dead already exceeds 12,000. Entering Gaza won't be easy, and getting out is likely to be even trickier. You'll have to get creative with this, although the recent chaos may very well give you an edge.

B

Phoebe heaves a sigh. "...Great. A job in the world's oldest war zone. Nice to see the Bureau's letting me back in nice and easily."

The girl packs a few things, hopping a flight to Tel Aviv soon afterward. Minutes go by like hours, and the entire flight seems to drag on forever. Phoebe stares out the window, thoughts of Jade circling around her head. She wonders where she is. What she's doing. What she's thinking. She's concerned for her wellbeing. From the very beginning, Phoebe's thought of herself as Jade's guardian. Not that she's old enough. She's just two years older, yet Jade always had that childish naivete. Phoebe gives a smile. She claimed to have no lingering affection for her. But that was a lie. She had plenty--but the Bureau needn't know.

As the plane nears the city, Phoebe spots black smoke billowing up from below. She finds Tel Aviv is a wreck. Even the airport shows signs of chaos and unrest. Madness fills the streets, with scores of armed Israeli soldiers blockading the main roads. Violence is everywhere, Israelis and Palestinians killing each other at every turn.

Phoebe finds a hotel, planning out her next move as she stares down at the city. She's shocked at the sheer mayhem. She knew there'd been an attack, but she had no idea who'd carried it out. Little did she know it was Jade--her former partner and ally against the world. Nor did anyone else--Jade had moved fast, killing forty-six people before vanishing from sight. And she'd left chaos in her wake. The region was normally tense, but to have this much carnage in the streets was unprecedented.

Phoebe turns around, lying in bed and flipping on the television. She turns to the local news, finding a live broadcast of the ongoing mess.

"I'm standing here in Jerusalem...," a frazzled reporter says. He clutches a gray microphone, holding one ear to lessen the noise. "As you can see behind me, scores of Palestinian protesters have lined the streets, chanting 'Death to Israel' as fires burn on the horizon. Israeli soldiers have managed to blockade the streets, but rioters have been hurling large objects from the crowds. So far, the government's managed to regain control of Jerusalem, but violence persists in other regions, with many firefights breaking out across the nation."

"And what do we know of a motive? What was the cause of this unrest?" the dopey anchorwoman asks.

"Well obviously Israelis and Palestinians have been quarreling for years, but we believe the recent unrest began with the killing of ninety unarmed Palestinian protesters by Israeli forces just days ago. Not long after that, we of course heard of this recent shooting in Tel Aviv where forty-six Israelis were killed, among them Elijah Mendelstern, leader of the Israeli Defense Forces. Mendelstern has been replaced by General Isaac Rubenstein, but the IDF says they don't know how much longer they can manage to hold back the waves of Palestinians pouring in from Gaza."

"And...what more do we know of this recent shooting?"

"...Not much, quite frankly. Israel blames Hamas, but so far Hamas has yet to claim responsibility. There are rumors it was a lone gunman, but given the sheer number of fatalities, that seems unlikely."

Phoebe rests in bed, knowing her latest targets are from said organization. She raises a pair of pictures, eyeing the Hamas warlords photographed via satellite. Rashin is a slender man, tall and light skinned for an Arab. He wears traditional garb, consisting of plain white robes and a black and white keffiyeh. Hadid has darker skin, sporting a beard, mustache, black robes and dark shades. Phoebe gives a sigh. This job won't be easy. For many, many reasons.

Phoebe settles down for the night. The next day, she sets out, renting a coupe with tinted windows. She struggles to leave the city, as the main roads have all been blocked off. She searches for half an hour, looking around for a way out of Tel Aviv. Eventually, she finds a back road, hitting the highway and heading southwest toward the Gaza Strip. Miles of land pass by, mountains made of sand, sun beating down from a clear blue sky. There isn't a cloud in sight, and yet the land looks foreboding; almost macabre. As Phoebe continues to drive, a sense of dread engulfs her senses. She knows this is a dangerous job. But it's not her own safety she's worried about.

It's Jade's.