Chapter Two

Or, training, and the trouble with nicknames.

Much to Johana's surprise, there was something of a crowd in front of the big double doors she and Stene had seen on the tour. It was eight in the morning, which made the crowd's demographic all the weirder. Girls her and Stene's age, many a little older, a few a little younger. All Kicsik. Something seemed weird about that to Johana, but Stene didn't bat an eye. 

Sleeping on it, Johana surmised she probably shouldn't have been surprised by the gun. Other than her age and sex, everything about what Celist had said to her screamed of violence. But at the time it hadn't mattered. Concerningly, it didn't seem to matter now, either. Johana wondered at how much she had changed from just a few days ago.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the double doors swinging outwards, a few girls stepping back to avoid being in the way. The room beyond was a small auditorium, probably only able to seat fifty or so. Of course, there weren't even fifty of them here, so that wasn't an issue. Everyone piled in, sticking in pairs much like at the cafeteria. Johana caught a few curious glances her way.

Nudging her to follow, Stene headed in. Johana kept pace, behind her on the right side, and they took a seat at the from. Most had sat at the back of the auditorium. Perhaps rebelliously? It didn't matter- Celist walked onto the small stage, and the babbling conversations died to a murmur, then nothing.

"Good morning," Celist greeted, and the class echoed him. "This last week has been a good one. We had two successful operations.” There was a little murmur at that, but it silenced quickly.

"First, I would like to congratulate , I would like to congratulate Housle and Kacatko for their success.” A girl with white feathers instead of hair and a similar looking brown-feathered girl stood and waved, the white feathered one hamming it up a little bit. The audience clapped and cheered in a remarkably juvenile manner.

“Second,” Celist continued after it died down, “Kure and Stonozka did an excellent job with their cleanup yesterday.” The crowd clapped, but it was merely polite this time, and the two girls in question did not stand. Johana didn’t really understand the difference, but she could tell from Stene’s expression that whatever they were doing wasn’t as important as the other pair. 

“Now,” Celist said, his voice dropping an octave. The room hushed totally. “Some of you are probably wondering about last week’s third operation.” It seemed that the only one not on the edge of her seat was Johana. The girls all looked at Celist, with some of the older ones seeming to hold back tears, as if they knew bad news was coming. Admittedly, even Johana had picked up on that, but she didn’t know what was going on.

“It is with great sadness,” and the room broke apart into sobbing and wailing, “that I must announce the deaths of Svetluska and Zaba.” Stene grabbed Johana’s sleeve and sobbed into it uncontrollably. Johana hastily wrapped her arms around the girl, tears of sympathy welling in her own eyes. Dead? What? “They were discovered recovering their weapons by a poorly timed patrol, and the ensuing gunfight was fatal for both girls. We will hold a funeral in two days. All operations are suspended until then, although training will proceed as normal.” Johana could barely believe her ears. Two girls were dead, and Celist was announcing it like every other piece of news, just a little sadder. Even the crowd was already beginning to recover. Hadn’t two of their friends just died? How could they move on, Johana wondered, in less than five minutes?

Only possible if they were prepared, some part of her pointed out. And Johana couldn’t help but shiver.

Celist gave the room time to recover before he continued speaking. The last sniffles died out, backs straightened, gazes hardened. Like the war movies she and her sister had snuck past the Nurse, with the help of the Master. Soldiers.

“I would like to introduce today the newest member of the Zabijáckédítě.” That word blew by Johana, who barely even processed the syllables. Celist looked directly at her, and Stene ushered her up. “She is to receive her new name today.” The crowd clapped, subdued. Couldn’t this have happened before the death announcement? Johana walked past empty faces, stern looks and unimpressed eyes. It seemed so wrong to her, to be going up there after an announcement. Every head in the room followed her as she clambered up onto the stage to stand beside Celist, only Stene looking remotely reassuring. Johana swallowed, looking out at them.

“Her Zabite name will be Micinka,” Celist said. Johana glanced at him, then back out at the crowd. Again, muttering and murmuring, but this time mostly from the older girls. Zabite name? Zabite was probably a shortening of that word he said earlier, pronounced za-bee-tay, which must have been what they called themselves. “I know that may upset some of you, but we cannot retire any name forever.” Johana looked at Stene, whose face was a little colder than she was expecting.

It shouldn’t have hurt or surprised her, but it did. Johana cringed, and she and Stene looked away from each other.

“She is Stene’s new partner,” Celist explained. The older girls shook their heads in obvious distaste, and the younger girls started to clap, but then stopped when they realized it wasn’t what the group expected them to do. “Her training begins today. I hope you all will take good care of her.”

Silence.

Johana stepped down off the stage, heading back to her seat. Celist launched into an overview of the plans for the girls, dropping names and jargon left and right such that Johana couldn’t even parse what he was saying half the time. It didn’t matter, because no matter how many times she looked over at Stene, the girl wouldn’t meet her eyes. Eventually, the session ended, and Stene abruptly stood. Johana stumbled up onto her feet and followed her closely.

“Micinka,” Stene said, and it took Johana- Micinka- a moment to realize that was her. “We will start with hand to hand training. Follow me.” This seemed awfully sudden to Johana, but it wasn’t like she could do anything about it. The gaggle of girls broke off in every which way as they left the auditorium, Johana struggling to keep pace with Stene. The other girl seemed to be able to navigate the crowd with ease. Meanwhile, Johana was struggling just to not bump into everyone.

She took a left, then a right, and threw open (with some effort) the iron doors they had seen during the tour. Inside was a room with a soft tan floor and soft black walls- not too soft, but enough that Johana didn’t think she would be hurt if she impacted them. Which was probably the point. Oddly, Johana was able to spot Trace in the corner. He waved to her with a little uncertainty, sitting on a chair akin to a barstool. The ceiling was one of those easily maintained drop ceilings, with fluorescent lights casting a white glow over everything.

Turning to face her, Stene adopted a sort of weird posture. Leaning forwards, doing something funny with her feet, bringing her arms up. Johana vaguely recognized it as a fighting stance from that last detail. Picking up where this was probably going, Johana tried to mimic the other girl, bringing her hands up too.

And then bam, a fist in her gut. Johana coughed, staggered, and collapsed backwards. Her abdomen was on fire.

“Stene-” she started, and then the girl kicked her in the side. “Stene! Stop!” But the dog girl didn’t stop. She kicked her two more times, then stared down at her. From the corner, Trace watched, his expression unreadable.

“Micinka,” she snapped. “This is not a game. Your fights won’t end just because you got hurt. Stand up.”

Johana stumbled to her feet, looking angrily up at Stene. The girl hadn’t even taught her to punch or kick or anything, and now she was beating her up. Fine. She’d show her. Johana braced herself for what was coming, raising her arms and doing a better job copying Stene’s posture.

And then she was on her back again, gasping for air. Stene did some sort of straddling thing, then pinned her and just like that, Johana couldn’t move or catch her breath.

“You will never win a straight up fight,” Stene said, Johana beginning to catch on to where this was going. She tapped the ground desperately, feeling darkness at the edges of her vision and pain in her legs, but Stene did not let up until the last moment. Johana scrambled out from under her, breathing raggedly and crying. What happened? Why was Stene suddenly being so hostile? Johana understood that the point of this was to humble her, but she hadn’t really seen herself as a good fighter in the first place. She looked over at Stene, trying to judge what the girl was thinking.

Stene’s face was stoic, but she was still a kid. She couldn’t hide from Johana the distaste she seemed to be feeling. What had changed from the kind girl the day before? Angry, Johana leapt up at her. Apparently that caught Stene off guard, because they went to ground, and Johana began striking her in the stomach. Something broke in her left hand, but Johana kept hitting anyway, until Trace intervened and pulled them apart with ease.

“Gods above, Jo- Micinka. What were you two doing? This is a professional training room, not a place for girlish disputes,” he snapped. Johana didn’t look him in the eye, and avoided looking at Stene. She couldn’t help it. She didn’t know what was going on, or what she was doing, or why Stene was hitting her. Trace shook his head. “Stene, this was terrible of you to do. She clearly doesn’t need you beating her up. Did you even take her to orientation yet?” He tossed the two of them to the ground, a demonstration of strength, warning them that just because he wasn’t touching them didn’t mean he wasn’t absolutely in control here.

“I’ll accompany you two to Celist’s office. And no, you won’t get to clean up first.” Trace watched Johana (and Stene) get up again. She brushed the dirt off her clothes, noting that the skirt cleaned up quite nicely, contrary to what one might expect. Things were beginning to fall into place in a way that, rather surprisingly to Johana, pleased her. Clothes that were easy to clean. Combat training. Guns. Dead girls. Spy work, just as Stene had said.

Celist’s office had a solid wooden door. A brass plaque read Vaclav Smetana, presumably his real name. Why Celist then? Johana knew it meant “Jaw,” so probably his scars, but it seemed odd for a government official to have a nickname like that. It must have had more significance. She was thinking about that because she was not looking forward to meeting him under this context.

The door swung in, and Celist nodded to Trace. Two chairs were in front of his desk. The desk itself was solid wood, looking very heavy. It was stained dark, nearly black, and kept very tidy. Only a few papers and a typewriter marked it as being in use. The walls were bare off-white, and the floor was dark hardwood. Celist sat behind the desk, in front of a window overlooking a courtyard. Past him, through it, Johana could see some of the Kicsik from before playing or something in the yard.

“So,” Celist said, a note of amusement in his voice. That surprised Johana. “Micinka and Stene. A fight was expected, given the name, but I didn’t think you’d be the one to pick it, Stene. I expect better of you.” The dog girl cast her eyes down.

“Micinka, I should explain,” Celist said, gesturing with his hands. They opened, as though to make him more approachable, but his voice got colder. “On missions, it is of the utmost importance that nobody learns your real name. As such, we call you by the names of the animals you are blended with. That would be too obvious, though, so we pick the words from a Pansa tongue that’s not really spoken around here. Micinka means kitten, and it’s also the name given to Stene’s old mentor. She passed away from complications during surgery two months ago.”

Johana wasn’t sure how to react to that, so she didn’t.

“In other words, people will expect you to live up to the name, lest you tarnish her legacy,” Celist continued. Johana was baffled. Why? Why her? She didn’t understand any of this. “She was one of our best field operatives, and I have reason to believe you, specifically, might be able to live up to that name.” Johana waited, but Celist didn’t explain any more. It caused an awkward pause.

“I see,” she replied lamely. She looked over at Stene, who wasn’t saying anything. Johana understood her reaction a little better, now. If Stene was willing to work with her, after this, then she’d be able to forgive her. Even if it did suck to have a ton of bruises and feel betrayed, it would be like if someone took her sister’s name. Johana got that.

“You don’t, not yet,” Celist corrected. “But you will, in time. Now, since Stene decided to have you skip it, I suppose I will handle your orientation. You have joined us as a member of the Zabijáckédítě, or Zabite. You are field agents, tasked with infiltrating terror groups. Specifically, there are Kicsik hate groups being run by traitors, attempting to curry favor with what they see as the majority.

“Zabite sneak in, whether by acting as a double agent or more traditional sneaking. Then you cut the head off the snake. Sometimes that’s literal,” he said, and Johana nodded. It was more or less what she had figured out from context clues. Giving her a look that Johana found difficult to read, Celist continued speaking. “You’ll train for a few weeks with Stene, then you two will go on missions for us. Today was supposed to be orientation- this- and then basics of hand to hand with Stene. I’ll have Trace teach you firearms instead, and Stene can clean the bathrooms.”

He withdrew from his desk a small brush, akin to one for shining shoes, and handed it to Stene. She stared at it for a second, then looked back up at Celist in horror as she put the pieces together. Johana glanced at her and found it difficult to feel pity, but the ridiculous punishment did have an effect of making the fight seem relatively unimportant. It helped Johana move past it, which was the point, she presumed.

“Well? Get to it,” Celist said, clapping his hands and then gesturing with one towards the door. Johana and Stene stood in sync, glanced at each other, then headed out into the hallway. Stene made a right and headed to the bathroom, brush in hand. With a smirk, Johana watched her go, then turned to Trace.

“This way,” he said, and his voice sounded somehow unamused. The smirk fell from her face, and Johana realized Trace had probably known the previous Micinka. Probably even trained her, like he was training Johana now. Celist had been very casual about the death, but it seemed like he was probably the only one. She swallowed, flicked her ears and tail nervously. Trace had turned, his dark suit masking body language well enough that Johana was having a hard time reading him. With any luck, this wouldn’t be like training with Stene.

They went through the iron doors into the training room again, but this time he pulled a padded door open, one Johana hadn’t seen before. It led to a concrete hallway, and Johana could faintly here pops through the walls. Gunshots, she realized. There was a firing range inside the building? She would have thought she’d be able to hear that from further away. Trace passed a couple doors and opened the last one in the hall, into a private room. It was relatively narrow, maybe six or seven yards in width, but very long at what must have been three hundred yards. Where they fit this in the building was totally lost on Johana, but she hadn’t gone all the way around it- maybe it went into a hill or something. 

The walls had weird triangle looking things on them, except for the back wall, which looked like it was made of scales or something. A rail ran most of the length of the ceiling, ending at the far wall and about four yards from the door, and from it dangled an arm. A desk between the end of the rail and the door was bolted to the floor, and atop it was a black box. A lever on the left side of the room, near the door, seemed to control it. Trace pulled it down, and the arm came close; he withdrew from the desk’s drawers a piece of cardboard and a sheet of paper with a Kicsik silhouette on it. He stapled the paper to the cardboard, and fiddled with the arm until it grabbed the whole thing and held it at adult eye level. Trace pushed the lever up, and it went back about five feet.

That close? Johana thought it seemed odd, but didn’t say anything.

“Come here,” Trace beckoned. Johana did, watching him open clasps on the side of the box. Its interior was made of soft leather, and contained a gun. It looked big to Johana, the top part bigger than her hand, and the grip at least as long as her palm. Despite her earlier reaction, Johana was very interested in it. The way it worked was a complete mystery to her, so Johana quickly reached out and grabbed it to look down the front, trying to see what was inside the hole.

Suddenly, Trace grabbed her and gently pointed the gun away from her, towards the target. He said, a little loudly, “Alright, slow down. We gotta cover safety stuff before you start messing with this thing.” He had her set it down.

“Okay, Micinka,” Trace said didactically. “There are rules for using this thing. I didn’t think you’d grab it, but I guess most girls your age aren’t so curious about these.” Johana nodded. “First off, you should never assume it’s unloaded.”

“But I didn’t put any bullets in it,” Johana complained, frowning.

“I know. But how did you know whoever used it last didn’t leave one in there?” Trace had a point. Johana shivered a little, uncomfortable now that she realized she might have pointed a loaded gun at her own face. “Anyways, rule one of shooting is to assume every gun is loaded, even if you just cleared it a minute ago.” He saw her make a face at the word cleared. “I’ll explain all the words later. The second rule is never to point the gun at anything you don’t want dead.”

He looked at her pointedly, and Johana flushed with embarrassment.

“The good news is, you followed the third rule. Finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Finally, always be sure of your target. That’s kind of a class on its own and we’ll go over that later, but today, just don’t shoot anything besides the target. You following?” Trace cocked his head, which Johana recognized from her own patterns as an invitation to speak.

“Yeah,” she said. “Can I shoot it now?” Trace laughed.

“First we have to go over how it works,” he said. “You’ll be responsible for taking care of it, so pay attention.” He seemed in his element, voice confident and losing the edge it had gained earlier. Johana watched as he picked the gun up, pushed a button so a weird looking metal stick came out of it, and pulled the top part back.

“This is a custom made gun for our organization,” he explained. “Well, not really custom, but it’s made for us. Small guns that you can hide, like this, are called pistols. It’s the third version. It’s made by Pansa workers, in an offworld company where they still speak the native Pansa tongue. So, we call this a vlastní pistole vzor 3 in our language, or VP3 for short.”

“VP3,” Johana echoed.

“That’s right,” Trace said happily. “The VP3 is a really versatile weapon.” Johana looked at it. To her, it just looked like a gun, but she was sure he’d clarify, and he did. “First off, it’s chambered in- which means, the ammo it uses- in .357 auto. That round is plenty for a Kicsik, and can even take all but the toughest of Pansa down after a couple shots. By default, it only holds five rounds, but you can bring extended magazines. It’s also suppressor ready, meaning you can make it a lot harder to hear from far away.”

That was a lot of information, but Johana nodded. She got what he was saying: it was small, but packed a punch, and knew when to be quiet. A more cocksure girl might have attributed those same words to herself, or said it matched, but Johana felt pretty confident she lacked punch. As she was thinking, Trace spoke again, this time making a request of her.

“I read on your file that you’re right-handed, so stick your right thumb out.” Johana did. “Now focus on it.” She did, feeling a little silly. It was hard to resist the urge not to glance back at Trace and see what exactly was going on here. “Alright, now close your left eye.” Immediately, her perspective on the gun seemed to change, like she’d rotated her head ever so slightly to the right. A frown made its way onto her face. Trace had her do the same with the opposite eye, and then let her lower her hand.

“You’re cross-dominant,” he explained. “It means that you’re right-handed but left-eyed. Pretty common, but just remember that when I say to close an eye, you close the right eye.” Trace walked her through the basics of using the pistol, stuff Johana didn’t realize like pushing the magazine release to get the magazine out, or letting the slide go forwards by pressing the slide release instead of pulling it back every time. As he walked her through the basics, he loaded a magazine with one round. Trace offered it to Johana, who inserted it into the gun as instructed.

“Now point the gun at the target. Close one eye, and line up the sights like we talked about. Get that front post level.” He corrected some things about her form, having her choke up on the gun until she was somewhat worried about her fingers touching the slide while it moved. Eventually, he was pleased enough with her that Johana got the go-ahead to shoot. She shut one eye, lined up the sights. It was tough, they waved around a lot, and the target was sort of fuzzy. Hesitantly Johana put her finger on the trigger and gently pulled backwards until suddenly bang and there was a hole in the target, the gun flipped up and then back down, trying to escape her hands. But it didn’t.

“Nice shot,” Trace remarked. Johana focused on the target, and an embarrassed smile came over her face. She’d put it right in the box labeled “A.” The kill zone. It was pretty satisfying, and she glanced up at Trace expectantly, gun still pointed downrange.

“Yeah, we’ll do some more stuff,” he chuckled, amused. “There’s a lot to learn.”

Johana was starting to enjoy this job.