Strong For Too Long

BOOK 1: CHAPTER 01: Reign In The Ashes

The sentence you are currently reading has the potential to undermine your capability in the knowledge of literature and your bland consciousness to understand my dementedly destroyed mind, all thanks to my biological upbringing of erudite functionality.

I want to know if that sentence not only mentally, emotionally but, also physically made you want to avoid understanding the rest of my highly incomprehensible, foreign lifestyle that made me want to become a trained serial killer...just to get away from my parents.

I want to know if anyone has actually concluded a thought that provoked defensive violence as a stroke in a calculative career opportunity and basically to make a lot of money in a seriously short timespan, and didn’t have to sleep in the basement of your caregivers house? This is rhetorical, but if you need someone to talk to, check all my followers, they may be able to help you out. Anyway, I was reading what was the most inventive way to lure my readers, or hopefullymyreaders into a story that visualises my life.

I was told, or more likely,informedto resist the urge to start the narrative too early, for example, setting an overdramatic scene of waking up to what will probably be a soul-sucking, demolishing day ahead. The character begins with the stroke of an alarm, a bleeding grunt of a beep, if you will, and from then on, you think ′How many fictional characters are happy early morning risers?′

It’s the same stuff, in a different format, written in a different structure, but ultimately with the same damn outcome.

Another was—and I quote—′remember that small hooks catch more fish than big ones’—this in other words says that if you start too high in a novel, a book, or a tale of oneself...if you’re all for formality...you’ll most likely go downhill from then on. So, if I begun this story with a cranky old bus driver disrupting my sleep on the way to this new Academy I signed up for, you would assume, my character is not a morning person and I’m on the road to delinquency. Or perhaps a school for nonobservant, neglected failures and please start laughing, because jokes on me, I signed up for this shit.

Last but, not least, avoid getting ahead of the reader—yeah, that’s you, dipshit! Whether you’re holding a tablet, an iPad, iPhone, desktop, laptop even some sort of space-alien type of technology that gives you the ability to read this sentence, I’m still freaking talking about you.

I cannot, under any circumstance put you in a position where you have no idea where the fuck you are in my story, starting with dialogue isn’t the worst plan, but it is definitely not the best plan. Dialogue needs to start from somewhere and it has to sound like one of the most important conversations that had to be listed, as if you were talking to the Queen of England, that has to be written down, printed and published.

Not simple dialogue. So, I want to start off simple, yet blatantly complicated and I need you-yes,youas in the one reading this right now to stick to my hip. Repeat with me...

STICK TO THE HIP!

Stick to my hip most specifically and don’t get any wrong ideas about it. You start feeling weird, throw the freaking device onto a soft surface, take a glass of water and a raw, wintry ice pill, (known as a bloody chill pill for those who are lost already) then get under those bed covers and begin again.

Give yourself a minute to do this.

....

....

Okay, minutes over and I’m required to keep going, pause on your own time.

Now, back to me, don’t think of me as selfish, but this is my documentary, only my voice is not some smooth baritone like a Liam Neeson kind of beginning. I’m a girl, a teenager if you want to put an age on it, that was on her unexpected hobbiton journey to learn the skills of an Air Marshal, the techniques of Jackie Chan and the will of a girl who wants to prove her worth....

Fantastic, am I not?

There’s a legitimate school for this and not some police academy—this is something far more specialised where people’s backgrounds are set aside. Thankfully—that included mine.

The ACC Academy was an observational golden ticket to a newly made development of students under the want of physical combativeness against other elites.AcademicCombatCurriculum Academy was a place, in fact it is a set of buildings, that I had been waiting a very long time for. This Academy was international, providing scales of scholarships to many around the globe, at whatever age to study and train in combat, but not under a military approach.

A division coated and cloaked under a European government as a safety mechanism in a world of war and ruin. The Academy may have been international, but it was strictly only to fight for all European personnel. This was not my full intention, but it would open more doors for me, it would open another reality for me.

No one has a squeaky clean past, mine held a lot of closed doors, a few where some could hear a few screams if they listened closely. Not an asylum, if you thought this dear readers, I am highly disappointed, greatly offended, but only mildly pleased. I have a coat of insanity on my shoulders. To be successful, you have to be a little crazy. This would be the foundation in showing me how to create such a barrier.

I was a whole new Olivine Crane, and I was going to live it to the very best of my ability because, as it was said before, it was my golden ticket from supplying my future with the visioned experience of my past.

The driver before me, in a New York looking taxi that was probably deported from that exact location, turns his wheel closer to the left as he parks directly next to the bus with every other student...just like me.

I slip out, moving towards the driver’s side after grabbing my bag from the back and handing him two notes worth, “This enough?” I ask and he nods profusely, eyes widening and I glance at the scanner, I paid him double. It’s not like I didn’t have the money to do so, so freely. Much like many hackers, I pick and grab like moving in a supermarket, just not paying for anything and grabbing money instead of nutritional or not-so-nutritional products.

I better still have you all stuck to the hip.

If I don’t...come back when you are of age. That’s you, reader (talking to you once again).

Fantastic, let’s continue...

He reverses the second my feet and bag are on the wet footpath, nicely so as to not splash bucket loads of muddy water over my clothes. At least paying double stopped that from happening. I glance up at the questioning dark grey clouds, that spread like wildfire in the sky above, knowing what’s to come, I ready my umbrella for the first drop of rain before the drizzle begins.

My kind of weather.

Joining the line of students, a newcomer surprises me when a strawberry blonde shoves her head under my umbrella, “Mind if I join you?” She asks, almost dreadfully when she screeches at the thunder that begins, her pale blue eyes smile almost too easily. The girl must have not seen the harshness of life in the eye. I know my eyes don’t smile, they rather—stare with a defensive trait.

She smiles at me as we’re forced to wait in line, “I’m Samsara.” She introduces herself and I return her smile, releasing the clutch on my bag handle, I hold my hand out in a handshake.

“I’m Olivine. This your first year too?” I introduce myself as practiced and ask casually while she shakes her head, to which I look to her in confusion due to the fact we were on the juniors route here and her bag tag has the same level of dormitories as I.

She waves her hand after shaking mine, “I took a foundational studies here, last year. It was a scholarship deal with the school I went to so, I took it and now, I definitely want to get into the medical field. Hitman and combat training isn’t my style.” She keeps up conversation and I nod.

“What about the computer sciences?” I ask and she furrows her eyebrows in confusion before giving me a ditzy smile.

“Like hacking and stuff?”

“Rebutting, integrated field work of computer and electrical engineering, re-programming hack work?” I list and her eyes widen, before she points at me, “So, you’re definitely in that field? Gosh, that’s so freaking cool, but ugh, I’ve never been good with computers.” She says, almost down-trailing-ly.

I smile, “Yeah, but, if we get a chance, I could teach you a few things and same for you, I’ve never really looked into the medical work in it all. We could use this as a studying technique?” I offer and she practically beams at me.

“Hell yes, that would be terrific. Gosh, I hope we get close dorm rooms.” She says, almost throwing her fist in the air, I nod in agreement, “We can request it considering we’re near the front of the line.” I gesture to the front of us and she squeals, before holding my wrist as she stays under the umbrella and we walk forward.

The second we gather both room slips and course guide information, she sticks by my side with her bags, “Sorry, I already feel so chilled with you. I usually have a hard time making friends.” Samsara murmurs truthfully when we finally make it to the correct street number of thirteen, Building C.

I raise both eyebrows, “I find that hard to believe.” It’s my turn to be honest.

She sighs, shaking her head, “I didn’t want to get into combat one-o-one, I preferred working with technological medicinal modifications, advancements in DNA...I found more intriguing but, everyone else in my school that got in practically frowned upon it. Suggesting it shouldn’t even by a faculty.”

I snort, “That’s pathetic, technically your career option is the only one that can’t be taken over by models upon models of new technology. Hard drives will probably be able to hack in the future with a mere push of a button. Drones will be able to shoot hitman targets but, no robot or new modification of technology will be able to overthrow you.” I tell her and she outright laughs, a reaction I didn’t quite expect. She tones down after a minute of leaning on the wall of the front door to Building C.

She pats under her ribs, “Wow...I’m so speechless.” She breathes out, or at least tries to when the oxygen molecules pop around her, eager to give her what she needs.

Air.

I pat her back delicately, “I’d like to be your friend too, Samsara.” She gives me a teeth smile, holding her hand out firmly now, “Then, I’m severely glad I met you, Olivine.”

I shake her hand, “I couldn’t agree more.”

She laughs, as do I but, mine maintains a small smile when she slowly nudges her bag to the door, “Anyways, will you be at Orientation later? We’re confirming our subject courses anyway.” She says and I nod, unlocking my door as we only depart for a short amount of time but, she still waved at me and we’d easily exchanged cell phone numbers, even gave each other nicknames.

When I’d finally closed the door to my room and flicked the light on, the space I saw placed another small smile on my face. There were no kitchens or bathrooms sadly but, I had a king sized mattress in the far left corner of the room and a large corner desk on the right. There was a fluffy red rug on the carpet floor and a furry black beanbag in the middle. Closest to the door was a small side table with a square inch mirror on the wall.

Instead of leaping straight for the bed like I know Samsara did because even though she’s skinny and tall, she put more weight on the hamstrings of her mattress so that I could hear it bounce from a whole hallway away. We were opposite to each other.

I opened my large wheel bag on the red rug, unzipping the belts that held my clothes, accessories and electronics down as I pull them out and lay each of my three laptops on the corner desk, using an extension cord to plug in all that I need.

Systems were up and running for me, within the hour of arriving and I was ready to advance my skills in the computer and electronics department in this Academy. I wasn’t a real fighter. I was a natural runner.

Yet, I still applied for basic combat training, considering the label said it was compulsory, I couldn’t not apply.

Smoothing the mouse pad over, I pulled up the general map of the school, both digital prints and blue scans of the grid. It was fairly complicated, as some levels were even underground. I’d hacked into their network systems in less than ten minutes, rifling through what I deemed as necessary, I got to learn more about the people in the junior year.

In my year.

Samsara Kai was a commendable student majoring in biochemistry and technical advancements under medicinal researching communities under the school name. She spent last year analysing past reports on biochemical contributors for advanced DNA modifications. My eyebrows raised when I watch a couple security videos of when she’d successfully shown her superiors jus what she can do with just a few chemicals and solid aluminium and create a self activated explosive detonator with simple high school chemistry. She was a freaky genius, but also worked well in maintaining doctoral fields for fighters hit in the field. She’d collated mountains of strategies on how to promote safety products for fieldwork contributors for the country.

The country in which I live in, or work in, London, United Kingdom.

British intelligence- absolute amateurs and reader, yes, you with that device that gives you the capability of reading this useless sentence that is in my story, listen up and keep up, it’s not a marathon I’m running right now, I’m no amateur.

What I’m doing or more like what I did, it’s most certainly illegal.

Anyway, back to the story, actually before I say anything else, reader, when I use the pronoun of ′you’, I’m talking directly to you, the one reading this useless sentence in my story, anyway, just know when I’m talking directly to YOU! This may make it easier whenyou’reconfused. I’ll put italics on it if I must.

A knock to my door suddenly rivets down each of my four walls and I outwardly cringe at the chills my weak walls give out too, only it’s shoved open by two men in tuxedos with men in black shades and a smouldering nudge in their overly arrogant faces.

“What?” I ask, almost blankly, if not trying to sound rude.

“Olivine Crane, you’ve been summoned to the council for violation thirty-four, section sixteen, protocol fifty-three of hacking into the schools private records and computer systems.” A monotonic smouldering-sucker steps forward, his blonde hair and cream beige eyes are already very flinch-worthy at the very sight of it all.

I sigh, just as the metal handcuffs come out and I’m forcefully ripped from my office chair and stood up, again, rather against my own will and shackled immediately as one of the men shove my small frame through the door. My door.

I keep my head down, but there’s no one around to hide from when I’m shoved into a secret elevator with restricted level access. I memorise the pin used and the number on the card that Fern Henries used, the male who declared myself to be summoned when I’m pushed into a dark office with only one high light. It overshadows the male before me, who stands in his chair.

“Leave.” He says to his men.

The second the metal door slams shut, I’m standing awkwardly on imbalanced carpet, in front of a male I can’t even clearly identify, when suddenly a light at his newly formed desk, switches on at the command of a finger flick.

His facials are angular, jawline sharp, but he’s clearly quite tanned and seemingly in his late forties by the crinkles in his caramel grey eyes, “Olivine Crane, age eighteen. Blonde hair, greenish-gold eye color. Applied for computer engineering and electronic modification under hacking supervision. Attended Crestwood Bayview high school in the lower regions of France, graduated with new high tech in this school choice. Both parents passed, no other known immediate family and has a strange fascination of pissing off your superiors in gang-related roller coasters. Do you know why you’re here, Ms Crane?”

Because I hacked his network within ten minutes and the school record is six months.

No, I’ve got no bloody idea why I’m in the Deputy principal’s office? I think, sarcastically.

The man before me is Aster Pierce, intelligence officer and professor of computer engineering under hack able training supervision.

He’s my new freaking teacher for my main set of subjects.

Just. My. Luck.

I shrug his way and not a moment later, he stands, walking around the table and leaning on the front of it...in front of me. He releases one clap and all lights in the ceiling of the room, turn on without the need of another command.

My side lip twitches, “Do we get that in our rooms too?”

He merely studies me, a cold expression now adorned on his face, darkening his eyes to a more chocolate caramel, in this light at least. Sticky and bitter, “Don’t play cute with me, young lady. It’s taken hours upon days upon weeks for people older than you and far more experienced to even attempt to hack into my algorithm and yet, here you stand, successfully ruling my grid in a matter...of minutes.”

I give him an innocent look, “I really don’t know what to tell you.” He need not worry so much for someone who’s just been served.

Boom! Mic-drop, people.

In a matter of nano seconds, he’s right next to me, but standing facing the door and a gush of wind floats through my hair, he sniffs once, “You use quite a potent perfume.” He murmurs, but I can’t tell if he’s disgusted or just...bizarre.

I shrug once more and he sighs, “You remind me a lot of myself, young lady.”

“A Dracula look-alike?” I ask him, all humour aside and he snaps his head to me.

“What? Is the long coat not scary enough?” He shrugs at the collar, it did nothing. He wasn’t interesting.

I give him a head-to-toe look, “It’s the twenty-first century, and it’s not raining in your office.” He grunts in annoyance, turning around briskly and dropping two cold large hands on my shoulders. I inhale sharply, eyes widening and calm fatigue shattering at my feet.

He shoves me towards a red couch in the corner, had I only now noticed in my peripheral vision that the texture had just been newly polished. He walks over to the cabinet opposite me, where a tray of hot green tea lies and he places it on the table between him and I. He takes a seat on the chair, taking a sip of his, but I don’t dare lean in to grab mine.

He scrutinises me for a moment, “You’re wittier than I thought you’d be.” He comments, to which I don’t answer as I observe the small details of his office.

He notices and smirks, “I’ve decided not to present you to my fellow colleagues on a few conditions on your part, as this is your first day.”

How considerate?

I merely raise an eyebrow as he leans in, pursing his tinted red lips at me, “But, on my orders, you will obey without question once I feel I can trust you with classified information regarding my status and capabilities at this school. Is that clear, young lady?”

I blink once, nodding once, fidgeting with my fingers only once, “Crystal.”

He leans back, waving his free hand to the door, “You may leave. Make sure to be in class five minutes early for tomorrow, you can help me set up the new lab I’ve hired to be prepared for electronic engineering 101.” He says, probably as punishment.

I stand, “Thanks, Mr Pierce.”

He grunts, “Smart-ass.” Under his breath.

I walk around the table and towards the door, before heading him clear his throat, “And, young lady?” He says.

“Don’t ever hack into school files without my permission,again.” It’s quiet, how he says it is so calm but, I can see the warning of it in his eyes.

I don’t nod but get the message clearly when I slam the door closed and Fern Henries steps forward in his suit, “Be glad you got it easy, newbie.”

I follow him, no longer shackled as I only have to follow him towards the elevator that only leads to this office on this level.

He leads me to my dorm, handing me a schedule, “Familiarise yourself with these websites, articles and general readings for computer and electronic engineering. He has high hopes for you.”

I swipe the conducted file from him, “He should be looking out for number one, Fern.”

Fern snorts, “What do you think you just showed him, kid?”

For my sake, I’d rather just be another kid in his class.