"Here they are." Clera left a stack of papers on Diana's desk. "The target profiles and a floorplan of the Plaza."
Diana took and sifted through them. Satisfied, she gave the slightest nod. "Thank you."
"If that's all, I'll be going. There's been a lot of contracts coming my way from the Middle East, and I've been knocking them out like no tomorrow."
Clera had only touched the doorknob when Diana spoke. "Actually, would you mind staying for a bit?"
Hesitantly, she let go of the knob. A biting chill set on her nerves. "Sure. Did you want to talk about something...?"
Some of her anxiety melted away at Diana's smile. "I'm aware we haven't been speaking as much. I have a habit of zoning in too much on my work, I realize, and I'm sorry. I hope we're still friends."
"Of course!" Clera nodded energetically. "You don't need to apologize. I know you get a lot more work than I do. That comes with being the best."
Diana planted the papers on her desk with a surprising amount of force that made Clera flinch. "Then, as friends, when were you planning on telling me about this experimental chip you had inserted into 47's brain?"
Clera froze. Her mouth ajar, only dry croaks of the word "I" escaped.
"I wasn't informed about an experimental program. More or less that Agent 47 was part of it--especially after the fact that he already took part!"
"It wasn't my call," she finally responded, much less chipper than moments ago. "Myung gave the order--I just passed it along."
"And you didn't think to tell me?"
Clera winced. One little thing, and she was being talked down for it. Clenching her fingers, she took a breath. "Why are you so cross? It was 47's choice."
Diana scoffed. "I don't buy that. You know as well as I do what procedure dictates. It's chain of command--what goes to the agent must go through the handler, first." Diana sat calm and composed, keeping her hands in her lap. "As it is, I don't know any other handler in the Agency who would be willing to bypass that. Not with me."
Clera curled up on her seat, fingers writhing. "I don't like what you're getting at..."
"And what do you think I'm getting at?"
Clera looked at the ground.
"Ever since you covered for me in the Sidjan killings, you've looked at me in a different light." The air grew tighter for her peer. "Where you would ask me how my work is coming along, you started asking how 47 is doing. I've seen the way you interact with our co-workers; you've become easy to irritate. When you--"
"Not everyone is perfect like you, Diana!" Clera jumped from her seat, covering the ground between them in an instant, even stunning Diana. "Any normal person would see their agent die again, and again, and again! Not everyone gets to have an Agent 47! You have no idea what it's like to always play behind someone's shadow! I have to put up with everybody talking down to me like I'm some kickable puppy. In the few seconds I held your earpiece, I was more significant than in the past 30 years of my life..."
The room fell silent, save for the ever-running air conditioner and Clera's heavy breathing. It was Diana who broke the pattern. "I know. I know that I'm more 'fortunate' than many others. I also know what it's like to see forces beyond my power ruin my life."
The breathing slowed.
"I may not understand the type of person you see me as, but you cannot let others dictate your life, indirectly or not. Had I let myself be driven by revenge on others before the Agency found me, I'd likely be dead and stuffed in a barrel courtesy of Blue Seed."
It was only the air conditioner, now. In a low cadence, Clera said, "Now even you like talking down to me."
A knock at the door. The guest poked her head in, eyes settling on Clera. "The board meeting is over," Myung said. "I need you to write the summary."
Without a moment's hesitation, she stormed out, walking around the board member and disappearing into the hall.
Diana set the papers at her desk the way she liked, trying to fall into work mode and push aside the ordeal. "Director Myung," she greeted, not even glancing at her.
"Diana." Rather than leave as she expected, Myung entered the office and sat where Clera once was.
Diana huffed, turning her chair to face the smiling old lady. "Is there something you wish to talk about? An apology or an explanation, perhaps?"
Myung furrowed her brows but soon realized she was talking about the chip. "You know, Diana, nobody in the Agency has ever spoken to me like you have."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
She held in a laugh at Diana's masked frustration. "I'll leave you to your duties. I see your agent is already on site."
Diana spun to her monitor where 47's tracker was indeed in the plaza. She sighed as Myung took her leave. Back to work.
***
"Ándale! Come on, La Parca!" Santiago, adorned in blinding sequins and threads of gold, cried. "I know you want me!" A cape of vibrant pink and yellow hung from his two hands. Under the burning sun and to the hollering whistles and cheers from the stadium, the matador stood sideways to his nemesis.
The hulking bull charged, kicking up dust. Santiago turned on the spot away from its direction, making the cape wrap around his waist. A stroke of wind brushed him as the bull raged past.
"Olé!"
La Parca slowed, and another's shout drew its attention. The horse-riding picador waved his arms at the animal; it didn't need much else to charge.
As it rammed the horse padded with armor, the picador drove his lance into the bull's neck, specifically its shoulder muscles. He kept his horse on its feet, directing it in a leftwards circular movement while making distance with his spear. When La Parca turned away, the crowd roared, for his third and final jab ended with success.
Santiago shouted, making it double back to him while the last picador left the ring. He held the cape from behind, leaving most of it on the right side. As the bull passed, Santiago half-turned toward the opposite side of the attack, lifting the cape and sliding it over the bull's back.
"Olé!"
Overlooking the arena in his box, the bullfight president raised a white handkerchief. A sprightly bugle signaled the end of the first stage and the beginning of the next.
Replacing the picadores were three banderilleros walking into the arena. They fanned out around the ring, one waving his cape and leaving La Parca disoriented. Santiago walked out of the bull's attention, observing for now.
Amid the crowded stands was an open space bordered by guards. One of the two people inside, Salvador Clemente, watched as the only silent viewer. The only thing he thought of was being anywhere else. Unfortunately for him, his guest didn't share the same sentiment.
Rico Delgado hollered his delight as the banderilleros closed in on the bull, with their mission to lodge barbed darts--the banderillas--into its shoulders.
