Today, I was reminded of an old acquaintance of mine. She was a spy. I met her in the line of duty while serving the nation in my secret agent capacity. Brea was a double agent. She had defected from her country and was seeking asylum through my department. She wanted a new life. We granted it.
She became my shadow for a good while, following me nearly everywhere I went.
When I think about it, I never really learned much about her. I’d often hear her talking about her previous government. It was run by some tyrannical “dick-tator.” He was a Sasquatch of a man, complete with an unshapely beard and terrible eating habits. She told me and a few other agents that she wanted to defect. Most of them didn’t want to get involved, but I helped her. Without notifying my government, I helped her set up a new identity so she couldn’t be traced. I gave her financial aid to establish footing. I taught her a few techniques from my own training. She was shaping up to be a decent agent. I remember the first time she choked someone to death using the double Shakespeare, reverse Marlowe hold. I was so proud.
Brea was pretty great. It was too bad she was just a fake persona. I was completely taken back when I learned that Brea Erickson never actually existed. The double agent, called Brea, was actually a triple agent working for a completely different government, the whole time. I wasn’t some savior that rescued a fallen warrior from the desolate wastelands of her home country, I was the target.
The agent known as Brea Erickson was using an alias, one of many, I suspect. I later learned that she also went by Cali, Sativa, Butterfly, and occasionally, Lanae. I was her mark. Her entire persona was an act. Her child-like curiosity, her religious persona, her friendly demeanor—all fake. Nothing about her was real.
The entire time within my government, she plotted to take me down. I never figured out why someone like her would go after a lowly agent such as myself, but her scheme was masterful, poetic in a way.
She got close to me, close enough to learn some of my tactics and strategies. She would turn around and mimic me to get top marks on her own missions. She would then falsify my mission reports to make my “on-the-job” demeanor seem less than ethical. It lowered my standing with several of the agents in my department. She made me look bad. No matter how heavily starched my tie was or how polished my cuff links were, the other agents only saw the “fuck up” she painted me as.
Brea moved on to a new department before I could confront her about everything. When I finally caught up to her at a local Starbucks, after some months had passed, she finally admitted her crimes under interrogation. She had breached my agency. She slandered my badge. She stole my promotion. But there was nothing I could do about it now. Too much time had passed to try and clear my name. The damage had already been done. There was no recovery for me. So I did the next best thing. I pulled out the snub-nose revolver I kept on my ankle, and put a silver-dollar size hole right beneath her eyebrow. We, at “The Agency,” do not associate with known terrorists.
Today, I received a package from a courier. It was a pair of blooded, cracked glasses. The same pair Brea wore in the coffee shop the day I removed her soul from her body. Not sure if was a warning or not. Maybe someone knows what I did. Maybe Brea survived, somehow. Maybe she has a protege. I supposed it doesn’t matter. As a member of the most prestigious agency in the universe, I’ve learned to always have a contingency plan in play. If, indeed, a zombie Brea attempts to return for my brains, I have another weapon I can use against her at any time. (Queue Bad Ass Music)
“I’mma remain a soldier, til the war is won.” – Boondocks Theme Song