Set in Stone: Isabel's life before Operation MAAS

[Estelore]

(It was about time that I moved this over here. I wasn't finished with it, but I've not had time 'til now to work on it.)
Before I begin, I must say a few things.
First, I have very little free time, generally. Long spans of time may elapse between posts. Have patience, friends.
Second, those who read this fiction should first familiarize themselves with the RPG "Operation MAAS".
Those who are familiar with it already should know that this fiction is solely about Isabel Stone's past and does not include the other main characters. It will not mention Ellie Hunter, Leia Burke, Daniel Nabet, Poison, Juggernaut, or any of their associated characters.
If it mentions William Higgins, it will only be in passing.
At this point in Isabel's life, she does not know who these people are, except MAYBE Higgins, and ONLY in passing.
Last, I would like to thank Richard for his awesome site, and I wish to dedicate this fiction to duffman, Anna, demos, Shanker, Jayne, and Xan, who have made my time in Operation MAAS extremely enjoyable.
You guys are great. Thank you, from the bottom of...well, we'll just call it my heart, for lack of a better word.

All that follows is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or events is unintended and purely coincidental.
~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*

A gyrfalcon, pure white and swift as an arrow, flies at top speed away from the skies above Washington, D.C. Half an hour later, she swoops low and dives through the open skylight on the roof of a firehouse in Brooklyn, New York City.
Inside, the falcon lands on one of the I-beams that criss-cross the ceiling. Swiftly and smoothly the bird grows and changes, her primary feathers receding, becoming slender fingers, the tail feathers blending and stretching, billowing out into an ankle-length overcoat. The wicked, ripping beak remolds itself into a sharp, straight nose and thin, white lips. The crown plumage lengthens and winds itself into a tight, immaculate bun of snow-white hair, knotting at the back of the head. The fierce golden eyes suddenly change colors, becoming an even fiercer blue. In less than a minute, the bird has become a short, slim, colorless woman.
The White Lady.
She swings easily down to a broader beam and walks confidently along its length, stopping where a hammock and a backpack are tied, and climing onto the makeshift bed. She pulls a bottle of clear Gatorade, a pen, and a tablet of paper from the pack, she takes a quick drink, and she begins to write.--------
I have gone by many codenames, aliases, pseudonyms, and titles during my lifetime. My four closest friends call me Ghost. My mother and father called me Elizabeth and Isabel, respectively, because Elizabeth and Isabel mean the same in different languages. Those who have seen me morph call me estreen, and those select few who have seen me totally demorph know me as the White Lady.
I am 50% Human and 50% Snow-White Siberian Tiger, and I can be whichever I choose as easily as another woman changes her clothes, and much faster.
Just as easily, I can be a bird, a bat, a bear, an Andalite, and many things besides, for two hours at a time. If I spend more than two hours in one of those forms, I will be trapped in that form forever.
I can be human or tiger for as long as I like, without fear of entrapment. This, among many other things, makes me unique among all the galaxy's morph-capable denizens.
My unique skills have served me well. I have been a bodyguard, thief, morph-dancer, assassin, spy, and much more. I have served in the CIA as an elite spy for the past nine years, using the codename "Ghost", and working as the leader of a group of five exceptionally talented young morphers whose gifts have made them amazing spies.
Today, that all fell apart, I lost my career in the CIA, and I nearly lost my life. The Agency is fallen. This document will serve as my last will and testament, if I should be killed.
-----------
As the woman writes what may be her final message to the world, she remembers. Everything.
-----------
FLASHBACK
I am three years old. My mother, Annelise, is a linguist-par-excellence, and my father, Nikolai Petersen, is the human ambasador to the Andalite homeworld. We are living in the Andalite Embassy in northern Russia. We have traveled to the zoo in St. Petersburg, and we are met by alien ambassadors.
Knowing my place in this interaction, I walk silently before my father as he approaches the Andalite liaison, Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill.
<Hello, Nikolai. This is your child, Elizabeth?>
Aximili looks down at me with his main eyes, smiling solemnly. He understands my life.
<Such calm dignity in a little one.> He muses, almost to himself. <Usually a child would run up to me, tripping over their own feet to meet the famous alien. This one walks forward slowly and respectfully like an adult. She waits silently and does not interrupt us with chatter.>
"Yes." My father says. "She is the daughter of an ambassador, and she knows her place."
I curtsy, and my white dress billows around me. I rise and stand still as my father and the alien shake hands. The brisk wind whips my long, dark hair around my face, but I stand utterly motionless.
Aximili walks toward me, a small blue box in his hand.
<I have a gift for you, Elizabeth; please place your hand on the top face of the box.>
Not knowing what is expected of me, I glance toward my father. He nods in encouragement, and he smiles reassuringly. There is a sadness in his eyes, and in Aximili's eyes, but I didn't understand why. I do as the blue alien says, and a cold-hot-electric tingle passes through my arm.
<You now have the ability to become any animal that you can touch. Never remain the same animal for more than two hours, or you will be trapped forever in its shape.>
He hands the box to my father.
<Your family may keep this Escafil device.>
"Thank you." We say in chorus.
The ambassadors then retire indoors to talk about affairs of state, and I wait patiently with my mother.
After the peace talks have ended, we visit the exibits, and Aximili accompanies us, observing the various animals of the Arctic Circle that have been collected here. We pass the exibit of a Snow-White Siberian Tiger, a gorgeous female named Reina
Neva, which, mother said, meant "snow queen" in Spanish. The tigress' eyes were brilliantly blue, the same color as my eyes, and the color of the blue box. The big cat had pristine white fur and no visible color beyond her eyes. She was like the snow that filled her habitat. She was perfect, fierce, powerful, and terribly beautiful, and I loved her instantly.
<A tiger! That was Prince Jake's battle morph, you know. It is a good morph for self-defense, and it is very beautiful.> He looked down at me quizzically.
<Elizabeth, would you like to be able to become the tiger?>
"Oh, yes, please!" I piped, before I thought to consult my father. I glanced at him, afraid that he would be mad.
He was. He gave me warning look, but he nodded to go ahead, because it is bad politics to refuse a gift, and it is even worse to go back on your decisions.
<Good! Here, now. Have you ever ridden a horse?>
I nodded.
<Well, then, climb on my back and hold on tightly.>
I could not believe what I was hearing, but I obeyed instantly. As soon as my arms were wrapped tightly around the Andalite's waist, he leapt over the fence and landed beside the tiger. He pressed his tail against the alarmed cat, and it immediately fell asleep.
<Now, Elizabeth, while she is in a trance, go and touch her. Imagine the tiger becoming a part of you.>
I did as he said, and then I climbed back onto his back.
We left the habitat, and I thanked him. Later we made our formal good-byes, and my family returned to our home in the embassy.
"Isabel Rosetta Stone." My father called me sternly, and I dared not disobey. When he used the Americanized form of my name, I knew to be careful with my actions.
"You should have consulted me, Isabel. I am not pleased that you let your emotions interfere with a state meeting. However, I am glad that you have a way of protecting yourself now. If anyone tries to harm you, become the tiger and get away; am I understood?"
"Yes, papa." I lowered my eyes. "May I practice being the tiger, papa?"
"Yes, but only in my presence, when I am in Polar Bear morph. Let us practice now." He had me put on a child-sized morphing suit, and then immediately began morphing, becoming the bear in forty-five seconds. His speed took my breath away, and it was beautiful to watch. Already a tall and powerfully-built man, his height nearly doubled, and his morph only added to his natural magesty.
<Now morph the tiger. Imagine yourself becoming the cat.>
I did as he said, and to my amazement I grew fur and a tail, exponentially increasing in size. In just under a minute I was the tiger, and her instincts pulled at my mind. I snarled at the huge bear, wanting to get out of the tiny room.
<Control yourself immediately.> He snapped.
I forced my emotions and the cat's instincts violently into the back of my mind, wary of irritating my father.
I sat down on my haunches.
<Now demorph. This time go faster, as fast as you can.>
I demorphed, watching the clock on the wall. Half a minute. My father had me morph and demorph repeatedly that day, pushing my mind and endurance to their limits, compelling me to go faster, to control the changes, to move around the room as I morphed so that I no longer fell over when my legs changed their shapes and my joints and bones reversed themselves. Soon I could morph in thirty seconds, fully clothed and wearing shoes, on the run, without breaking stride. That was the longest day of my young life, and my father spent every hour of his free time that week tutoring me in morph-combat. He occasionally would grin suddenly and compliment my technique, and at other times he took notes and filmed the morphs. He talked to my teachers and my mother a lot that week, but wasn't allowed to hear.
Only later did I learn why.
End of Flashback
----
I have had many different careers during my life, but the first was as my father's bodyguard. Because I was half-tiger, I used my senses and reflexes to our advantage, and I could be totally tiger even faster than my father could morph Polar Bear or my mother could morph Arctic Wolf. In an emergency, I could protect them both most efficiently, even more so than their assigned guards that were provided by each of Earth's major countries.
However, I had another role to fill: I was the ambassador's daughter, first and foremost. It was my job to be cute and respectful, seen but never heard unless asked a direct question or given a gift.
This job became simultaneously easier and more difficult for me as I grew up, primarily because of the cancer and the accident.
-----
Flashback

Two months after I acquired the tiger, I passed out during a meeting at the embassy. I was rushed to the hospital in Kiev, and they found a malignant and inoperable tumor in my brain, right where the control centers were for morphing and DNA synthesis in the cells. Chemotherapy was out of the question, due to the delicacy of the brain's chemical balance.
Radiation was the only answer.
It was my only radiation treatment, because it nearly killed me.
I laid back on the steel slab as the Rad-emitter moved forward. It turned on, and suddenly my entire body was wracked with scorching agony. My skin felt like it was on fire, and blue sparks sizzled across my hands and face. Curiously enough, I felt ice-cold inside. Not numb, but devoid of warmth. The cold scared me even more than the fire and the lightning, and I realized suddenly that I was morphing, a reflex reaction to intense pain. I knew that the tiger could endure it, that she would save me from the deadly agony. The pain stopped after what seemed like an eternity, and the technicians turned the emitter off. My parents rushed to my side, and I tried to demorph.
I couldn't do it.
I redoubled my efforts, searching inside myself for the human DNA that was my identity. I dug deep for my dark hair, so similar to my mother's.
Nothing.
I gave up and relaxed my mind, imagining my own blue eyes, something the tiger shared. Instantly the changes began, and in half a minute I was myself again.
Almost.
My mother gasped, "Elizabeth! Your hair! You're so pale!"
I looked at the mirror across the room. My hair, my face, my lips, all were totally and purely snow white.
But my eyes were blue.
Those weren't the only changes, either. X-rays showed that my bones and muscles were twice as dense as before, and they had lengthened and changed angles somewhat, so that I was nearly the same height, but my arms, legs, neck and spine were all longer and leaner, more flexible. I could do a handstand and a backbend effortlessly, but I looked no stronger than another 3-year-old. I would always appear much shorter than I actually was, because my legs had to bend somewhat to compensate for my lengthened spine. My balance improved radically, but I started wearing a long overcoat to conceal the change in my posture. I could stand up perfectly straight and darken my hair if I partially morphed my mother, however, so I didn't stand out as much in a crowd.
My mind was clearer and my reflexes sharper, but my thoughts were cold, logical, and unemotional. Emotion didn't matter as much to me, but survival became twice as important. I had the calm, fearless, calculating mind of a predator.
My senses were amazing; I could literally hear a pin drop and see half a mile in the dark. I could smell the presence of a single drop of blood from thirty feet away.
There was one change that the doctors never learned about, though.
I was colorblind.
In fact, I could see exactly one color: my eye color. The fire-ice-lightning color of the morphing cube.
I could see a faint blue halo around my parents, and nothing of color on my doctors. Everyone around me who could morph glowed that precise shade of blue.
People in morph glowed even more brightly, and people who were actually morphing shone like blue suns. My own Escafil device was utterly radiant.
I could see morphing energy. I never told anyone, but it has served me very well over the years.
Also, some morphers glowed more than others, and my parents and I were among them. I later learned that people with that particular intensity of blue were estreens.
Also, although I had tear glands and a clear third eyelid on each eye to prevent my eyes drying, I no longer had proper ducts.
Unless I morphed another human, I would never weep again.
The cancer was gone because my DNA had fused with that of the tiger, the doctors told us.
I acquired more animals, learning that I could morph and demorph directly from my tiger shape, completely bypassing my human form when I wished it.
I even found that I could remain tiger past the two-hour limit.
A Month Later
I stand on the dais, wearing a graceful white gown. I look upwards and raise my arms, arching my neck back as the snowy wings of the gyrfalcon stretch out from my shoulderblades.
The audience watches me in rapt silence, gasping in awe as I leap high into the air, falling in slow motion with my wings held straight out. I flare the primary feathers of my right wing, and I instantly turn around, my back to the audience.
I draw the wings back instantly in midair and my spine stretches into the tiger's tail. I land silently on all four paws.
I morph immediately the white goshawk, my long tiger's tail becoming the long tail feathers of the bird. I take off into the air, swooping low over the audience, then demorphing slowly a foot above the dais.
I grow swiftly, becoming a human-sized bird. All at once I land and reclaim my human features. I morph my mother's dark hair and straight spine, hiding my true appearance.
I bow to the audience, and they leap to their feet, screaming my name.
I am a superstar.
Elizabeth Petersen, the perfect daughter of the ambassador, is dead. She has been replaced by a cold, fierce, emotionless artist with the body of a child and the body of a tiger, by turns.
I am Isabel Stone. The child genius, the wunderkind, the estreen. The greatest morph-dancer the galaxy has ever known.
I am four years old. I am an interplanetary sensation, the new Shirley Temple, the new symbol of peace between the Andalite and Human worlds.
I was compared to Mozart and Gandhi, among others. Cassie the Animorph herself shook my hand on a public stage.
My parents had seen my morphing skills long before the accident, and they knew what I could do for our publicity and for the peace talks, as a human who had benefited from the Andalite influence. They had found me an agent, a clever woman with a sharp mind.
I was a star, literally overnight. I chose morphs that were white in color because they concealed my white hair and made the performances flow more smoothly. I chose many bird morphs, because their grace and my whiteness could turn me into an angel, in the eyes of my audience.
My new feline grace made me especially good at gymnastics and dance, and my inherited morphing skills and natural creativity allowed me to create awe-inspiring forms that touched human and Andalite alike.
Too bad I went bad.
One Year Later
I am five years old. I receive news that my mother has died. Her car hit a tree and fell into a ravine. Her body was never found. Her legacy lives on in me, because I acquired her as a morph, and because she taught me every language she knew. We hold a private funeral, and I morph gyrfalcon at the end of the ceremony. I shriek in agony and rage as only a falcon can.
I shed no tears.
Two Years Later
I am seven years old. I have been kidnapped by a mafia lord. He uses anti-morphing technology to force me to demorph from the fly shape that I used to escape.
I suffer indescribable agony, feeling each and every change without the usual numbness.
I later morph Black Mamba and kill them all, the boss and his henchmen.
I fly home to my father.
He finally realizes that I am not the same child that I was when we met Aximili in the zoo. I haven't been the same since the accident, but it has taken my mother's death and my own torture to make him understand.
He knows now. Elizabeth is dead.
I am the White Lady now, a ghostly being surrounded by death and pain.
Black is only the color of gentle night.
White is the true color of death. I know now that I will only hurt my father if I stay here. I can take care of myself.
A seven year old human is a baby, but a seven year old tiger is a wisened adult.
I am somewhere between the two, and very capable of survival.
Three Years Later
At ten years of age, I am a millionaire.
I hold private morph-dancing performances, and I am my own agent. I invade the homes of the rich at night and steal from them. I play the stock market and I work short days as bodyguard for the very people I rob, using morphs of adult humans as disguises. I visit my father once a week, while he sleeps, but if he knows that I am there, he gives no indication.
I am free.
I am not immoral, but rather amoral. The tiger inside me is a survivor, and she allows no room for a conscience.
I buy a city block in Brooklyn, New York City. America gives me even better opportunities.
I can be anyone, anything.
I am untouchable.
I fear nothing.
A new upstart mob boss in the City notices the skill of my crimes, where they are recognized. Word of this reaches me, and I serve as his elite assassin for six years. The White Lady is a symbol of death in New York, and I am very well paid. I am efficient when I kill. I am never cruel, and many a criminal has met a painless end at my hand, where another might torture them at length.
I take no pleasure in their deaths. I accept them as facts of my existence. The tiger sees them as prey.
Six Years Later
I am in love with the boss' son Alexander. Alex is an estreen, too. He is a year younger than me.
His family dies in a bombing, but we survive by morphing. He comes to live with me.

[Estelore]

The pale woman pauses in her remembering and her writing. Her hair suddenly turns a rich, shadow brown, falling around her in a dark halo.
A single tear rolls down her face and falls onto the page.
A moment later, her hair fades back to white and reknits itself into a tight bun. Her eyes are dry, but her body is wracked with silent, heaving sobs.
Above her a pigeon lands on the roof.
She allows herself to mourn only a moment longer, and then she recovers her composure, taking a drink of Gatorade and sitting up a bit straighter. Her jaw is set in a determined scowl, her eyes nearly glowing in the ferocity of her focus. She sets the tablet aside and stands up on the beam. The pigeon flies away.
Her eyes turn blood red, and she shrinks and grows long, white feathers. Her outspread arms become broad, round wings, and the tail of her overcoat becomes the long tail of the White Variable Goshawk.
Last, her feet split and remold into massive, cruel talons.
She flies up and out through the skylight, headed toward Central Park.
She overtakes the pigeon, snatching it out of the air and breaking its wings in her vicious grip.
<Why were you watching me?> she asks it.
<I am here to bring you a message...A job offer. Please put me down... You're killing me...> it gasps.
The goshawk and her quarry demorph a moment later in the middle of Central Park, in front of the Angel's Fountain. The white bird goes directly to her tiger shape, bypassing any humanity that would betray her with its weakness. The pigeon has become a thin teenage boy, probably no older than sixteen.
<Talk, child. If you tell me something interesting, I might not kill you for following me home.>
The boy shudders, but he regains his wits and starts talking.
"My boss has an offer for you. He is assembling a team to deal with the morph-related crime in the City. There will be five members, including yourself, if you agree to join. You would be paid very well, in exchange for insuring the safety of the team's leader, William Higgins, during the missions. You would be expected to aid the team in infiltration of and escape from secure locations. Effectively you would be both a bodyguard and a spy. If you choose to accept this offer, we request that you go to the New York Public Library at noon three days from today. If you call this number," he said, holding out a slip of paper, which the tiger carefully took in her mouth, "you can reach Higgins to discuss the terms of this operation to your satisfaction. Please consider this carefully, as it will involve risk of personal injury and even death for your person. However, you will never be expected to engage in any suicide missions, as you have been in...prior careers. Think about it."
The tiger seemed to consider this for a moment, weighing her options.
<Well, boy, I am not in any desperate need for money, but I have nothing keeping me from taking this job. I accept it, with reservations.>
"What reservations, might I ask?"
<You might not ask. I will discuss this with your superiors. Now, run away, before I change my mind about letting you live. If you follow me home again, I will kill you without hesitation.>
The tiger snarled and faked a lunge at the boy. He turned on his heel and ran. So did everyone else in the Fountain Terrace. They were native New Yorkers, and they were used to seeing strange people and wild animals in the Park, but they had enough natural New Yorker survival sense to know danger when they saw it.
The tiger mentally chuckled humorlessly. She morphed gyrfalcon for its speed and endurance, winging her way back to the firehouse. She took a roundabout route, noticing the Barn Owl that followed her in the fading light.
<Foolish boy.>
The falcon doubled back, circling around the owl before it could maneuver away from her. She flew below the owl, flipping over and grabbing its talons from underneath.
She laid back in a steep dive, using her greater density to pull the owl along with her. As the owl began to panic, the falcon released it and pulled out of the dive, wheeling above it. The owl billowed its wings and barely missed plastering himself on the ground.
Most falcons attack from a high dive.
The gyrfalcon is different: she chases her prey to exhaustion, driving it constantly closer to the Earth below, ending the hunt with a sudden burst of speed.
In low-to-the-ground flight, the gyr reigns supreme.
The owl didn't have a chance, and he knew it. As soon as he tried to pull up and away, the falcon nailed him.
An explosion of feathers, an owl's screech of pain and a falcon's shriek of rage, then silence.
The falcon demorphs.
A moment later, a Snowy Owl rises on the night wind and heads toward the firehouse.
Inside, the brilliant white bird lands on the beam and demorphs. The pale woman swings back down to the wider crossbeam. She sits back down in her hammock and picks up her pen and paper.
She writes.----------
I have just been offered a job with a team designed to stop the morph-crime wave that has been hitting the City. I will be working with a man named William Higgins, and three others who are still unknown to me.
I am told that I may not live through this job, but that does not worry me greatly. I am nothing if not a survivor.
I am aware that I am in posession of a considerable fortune. If, by some fluke, I am killed, I would not want the money to be claimed by the government. They have certainly not done me any good.
If I die, my entire estate is to go to my dearest friend, Alexander Lucas, who is also known as Shade. I request that he contribute ten percent of my fortune to wildlife charities, preferably tiger and big cat conservation efforts. Three percent of that should go to the conservation of Snow Leopards, and another three percent to Jaguars and the South American rainforests.
All else is Alexander's to do with as he will.
----
The woman sets the pen and tablet aside. She stretches out on the hammock and thinks about her past.
----
At fifteen and sixteen years of age, respectively, Alex and I are little more than children, but we live and behave like adults, because our lives have hardened our hearts and tested our wills, preparing us for any difficulties life brings to us.
I love him fiercely, and he worships me. He accepts my lack of emotion and my cold logic. He sees the human girl inside the predator that I have become, and he does not fear me.
Love is an action, not an emotion. Even predators love.
Because his father was a very rich man, Alex's inheritance allows us to live without dependence on anyone.
Because he is a minor, I publicly impersonate my own mother, acting as his legal guardian.
Alex affectionately calls me his little "Ghost" because of my silence and my whiteness. I can practically walk through walls, and I am feared by my enemies.
It is a fitting name, I guess.
Alex is taller than me, with olive-dark skin and black hair. He is so still and quiet that he is sometimes like a shadow on my wall. He is a shade, and I call him Shade for that reason.
When I am motionless, it is the stillness of a predator in wait of prey.
When he is motionless, it is utter peace and serenity, the acceptance of his life, welcoming the long, dark sleep at the end and the short, silent nights in between.
He has no fear, but unlike the tiger's natural invulnerable confidence, it is the fearlessness of one who knows that he will die, and accepts the fact without struggle.
I am a survivor, he is a fatalist.
That is alright with me.
We fill the hours by performing in Central Park, at the Angel's Fountain. We dance and morph together in flawless harmony, needing no words to signal the next change.
Today we dance before the crowd at the Fountain.
Alex lifts me by the waist as though I weigh nothing. I lay my head back and spread my arms, which become the shining white wings of the snowy owl. He lets me go, morphing a raven's wings as I float silently to the ground. I pirouette on one foot, then I retract my wings and the snow leopard's spots form cloudy rosettes on my skin. Alex moves in synch with me, his skin becoming covered with the emerald-green feathers of a resplendant quetzal. The six-foot tail feathers dance on the gentle wind, and my leopard spots fade and are replaced by the rich dark spots of the black jaguar.
We do an elaborate and graceful dance, almost a tango, then demorph. I become the tiger and he remorphs a black panther. We do a ballroom-style dance on our rear legs, returning gradually to human shape. He wears a black tuxedo, and I wear a flowing white gown that billows around me like wings.
We bow to the audience, and they toss roses and lilies at us, cheering in joy and amazement.
The entire scene takes only three minutes, and we are hardly breaking a sweat.
After the crowd walks away, a man in a black suit walks up to us.
"We have been observing you two for some time now, and we would like to offer you a job."
"We?" I ask.
"The Central Intelligence Agency."
Today is the beginning of nine years of government work as a spy, thief, and assassin.
I lead a team of five, including myself, Shade, and three younger teen estreens named Emma Frost, Aiden Kale, and Melissa Black. These would now be known as Wraith, Phantom, and Specter, and they would be my students and my team. Their talents varied, and they served different purposes, but we worked very well together. Phantom was an expert in ballistics and explosives, a young Irish red-head with a firey temper. Specter was a specialized thief and assassin, designed for darkness and stealth, with a cool head, pallid skin, and raven-black hair and eyes. Wraith could pass as my younger twin, but with added height and gold-white hair. She idolized me and acquired morphs mirroring my own. She shared my blatant honesty, but there was a strange quality about her that I couldn't name. She was married to Andrew Frost, a charismatic fellow.
---
When we first came to the Agency, Shade and I were only teenagers, but we were still older than the three children who worked with us.
I was allowed to choose which of the Agency's rising stars would be in our team, and I used my morph-awareness to spot them. They all glowed bright blue-white, and Emma Frost was the brightest of the three.
I knew instantly that they were the most gifted estreens in the CIA, as well as the youngest. They were young enough to follow my orders without much resistance, which was a major advantage, because everyone else at the Agency was at least twenty years old. Wraith was eleven, and Phantom and Specter were both thirteen. Children, all of us, but none of us was a stranger to suffering.
Wraith lived with her Andrew, who was fifteen at the time. I never asked how she came to be married at such a young age, but I assumed that she had morphed an adult for the ceremonies to be legal. Her parents had died in a bombing, and Andrew was the only person she had.
Specter never talked about her family, but her pain was written on her face.
Phantom's parents had died during the War when it reached Ireland, and he had moved to the U.S. with his grandmother. She, too, had died recently, but of pneumonia.
The Agency did not know that my father still lived, and I preferred to keep it that way. It seemed to me a bit too convenient that all these young and impressionable estreens were suddenly orphaned and recruited, just like Shade and me.
Only Shade and I were skilled enough as morphers to educate our new team, but the Agency provided tutors for everything else. By the end of the first year, our team was a finely honed weapon, consisting of five extremely intelligent and dangerous children. We learned everything there was to know about armed and unarmed combat, ballistic and bladed weapons, pyrotechnics and explosives, and dracon beams and shredders. We were all familiar with chemistry, biology, physics, and advanced mathematics, because of our Andalite teachers. We even learned tail-fighting in Andalite form.
I knew my team inside and out, and I knew how to use each of their skills to our advantage.
Phantom specialized in everything explosive, and he showed great proficiency with guns and dracon beams.
Specter was an amazing spy and assassin, and she had a gift with electronic devices. She was amazingly resistant to every known method of torture, and she had no recognizable conscience. It was enough to make me worry.
Shade showed particular skill in reconaissance and retrieval. If we got him in, he could get us out. He could find and steal anything and anyone. He was almost as fast a morpher as I was.
Wraith specialized in the same techniques as I did: morphing and knife fighting. Also, she showed a terrifying proficiency for imitation and torture. She could acquire a person's DNA without being noticed, and her thought-speak voice sounded exactly like that of the person she imitated. Also with thought-speak, she could bring terrible pain upon the minds of her enemies.
She had several morphs identical to my own, including my tiger, polar bear, and gyrfalcon.
I found this unsettling and flattering at the same time.
We went on many missions for our Agency, always believing that it was for the good of the U.S. and the world in general.
Six Years Later
I am twenty-two, and the team has been working beautifully. I am in my office at the Agency, and I hear someone walking toward me. This is strange, because my office is at the end of a long hallway, and nobody but my team ever comes here.
Andrew Frost sneaks into my office and looks through my file cabinet. Obviously he doesn't find what he is searching for, and as he walks out the door, I tell him from my position in the corner of the room,
<Next time you come in here, knock first. You aren't a part of my team, even if Emma is. You do not have clearance to see our files. Get out before I bite you.>
He startles visibly as I slither forward in Black Mamba morph, and he leaves as fast as he can.
I demorph and look in the cabinet. He was searching for the file on my personal history. I already know that it only mentions my parents as "presumed dead".
I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I ask for a sick day, even though I never get sick due to the tiger's accelerated immune system.
I fly on the first available jet to Russia. As soon as it lands, I morph gyrfalcon and fly at top speed to the embassy where I first lived.
Inside, my father sits and writes at his desk. A dark shape grows behind him. I sneak inside and demorph to tiger, running as fast as I can to reach him.
I hear a gunshot.
I burst into the room, leaping onto the assassin behind my father. I kill her.
I scan the area, already knowing that she came into the embassy alone.
Immediately I morph my human self.
Blood pours rapidly from the massive hole in his gut, and I can see that he won't have enough time to morph to heal. He looks up at me with blurred vision, and I swiftly acquire his DNA. Then I morph my mother. I can give him this, at least.
<"Nikolai,"> I whisper aloud and in thought-speak.
<"I'm here. It will be all right.">
"Annelise?" He chokes out.
<"I am here. Don't be afraid.">
"Where is Elizabeth? She was here..."
<"Don't worry about her. She can take care of herself.">
Sudden recognition dawns in his eyes.
"Thank you, Isabel. I never thought I would see her again. I love you, Daughter. Goodbye."
<"Goodbye, Papa."> The light leaves his eyes, and his heart stops beating.
This time, I cry real tears. My morphing suit is screaming its alarm into my mind, but I don't demorph until my time is almost up, and I only I barely manage to return to my tiger self. I run away into the Siberian wilderness.
It seems like I am out there for hours, but it is really only a few minutes. I lose all notion of time.
Outside I spot a tall, slender man morphing and running away from the embassy. He looks abnormally familiar.
In my grief, I don't realize who he is. He is soon a Long-Eared Owl, flying silently away.
I return to the embassy and carry my father's body away, burying it in the dark next to my mother's memorial stone. I pile a cairn of black quartz and granite over his grave, and I use my handheld dracon beam to cut his name into the heavy keystone.
When I am done, I kneel in exhaustion, leaning on the cairn.
"Father," I whisper, half in prayer, half to my own father, "I will have vengeance. May I have patience to do what I must do."
A fierce blizzard whips up around me, and I morph tiger. I curl up against his grave and sleep the sleep of the just.
I return to my father's embassy and clean his office in silence, then I morph my father. I walk into his secretary's office and resign from "my" post. I tell him that the noise came from my chair when I knocked it over, which technically isn't a lie, since the chair did fall when my father was shot.
Now that those loose ends are tied up, I fly back to the airport and take a return jet back to the States.
One Year Later
I am twenty-two. I am certain now that Andrew was responsible for my father's death, but I don't confront him yet.
I can be patient. I have all the time in the world to make him pay, and I will wait until the moment is perfect.
The team has long suspected that our parents' deaths originated within the Agency, and we intend to find out what is going on.
We sneak into the central office and raid their files.
Shade calls to me, and we read the contents of a disc that he found.
"Inhibition Death status report #3091.817.1915" it said on the screen. I clicked on the file.
Images of cells popped up on the screen.
The images were labeled:
'Mitochondrion taken from red blood cells of subject #1127 Elizabeth Petersen, 3, in human form before exposure to radiation'
'Mitochondrion from same subject, in tiger form, before exposure to radiation'
'Mitochondrion taken from red blood cells of subject #1127 Isabel Stone, 16, in human form, after exposure to radiation'
'Mitochondrion from same subject, in tiger form, after exposure to radiation'
'Image of blood cells from subject #1128 Alexander Lucas, codename Shade'
'Image of blood cells from subject #1129 Emma Frost, codename Wraith'
The list went on to continue each member of my team.
Some of the pictures went back to each member's early childhood, including images of our parents' cells, but my pictures far outnumbered the rest.
Another file popped up, showing a familiar picture of my family next to a picture of some cells, as well as a footnote commenting on the pictures.
"Subject #1117 Annelise Petersen/ Annelise Stone/ Lisa Carson, mother of Elizabeth Petersen/Isabel Stone and Emma Carson/Emma Frost: Note the similarities in mitochondria between this subject and subjects 1127 and 1129."
My blood seemed to freeze in my veins. Emma was my sister. I waved her over to the screen, and she gasped as she saw what I had seen. She looked in my eyes and seemed to accept the knowledge of the fact. I nodded to her, and we continued our search for information.
"Inhibition Death: a symbiotic/parasitic organism in Andalite and Earth cellular organisms, identified commonly as mitochondria in cells, allow for cellular respiration and modulation of DNA in above species. Contagious to Skrit-Na and related species, causes cessation of growth in those species, ending in death within a year."
That drew my attention immediately. I continued reading.
"All cells containing mitochondria/ID cells within the same organism are from the same colony, controlled by clustered 'master cells' in the brain, equivalent of a queen ant or queen bee, and protected by 'command cells' in the lymph nodes, equivalent of soldier ants or drone bees. All other cells are equivalent of worker ants or bees. Death of many ID cells in Earth and Andalite species results in cancer."

[ANna]

Yay! You brought it here! Cool. Your writing is really good, Estelore.

[Venom]

sweet!!!

just so we're all clear. if you are reading this, my time line is the correct one

[Estelore]

Thanks, Anna and Shanker! I'm not done moving it, but I got kicked offline midway. I'll finish moving it when I feel patient enough.


Shanker, as I recall, I was the first of us to establish anything RESEMBLING a timeline, and thus it is MINE that is most accurate and correct.

Of course, that doesn't matter, outside of O.MAAS.

[Venom]

but i posted in my character description, back when the RP started that Tyler was killed by visser 3 when i was 18, also changed my age to help correspond with your fic (i was originally 24, now im 37)

[Estelore]

What I mean is this: I was in O.MAAS before you were, and I was the first to even ATTEMPT to establish a consistent timeline.

[Venom]

pff fine w/e

[Estelore]

 

[Duff]

haha lets not fight, besides, my timeline is clearly the most accurate

jk i dont have a timeline hehe, but maybe ill start a higgins fic and create another completely different timeline haha

...loving the fic estey haha

[Venom]

i think we all should have a fic... it would be pretty awesome for us all to have back stories

[Estelore]

Thanks, Higgins...er...Duff .

Sorry. Back when I was fairly new to RAF, O.MAAS was pretty much the sole thread in which I'd post. I started to think of you guys by your characters' names.

[Venom]

awwww.... well i guess thats ok for me right Stone?

[Estelore]

Indeed, Nabet.

Just curious, how do YOU pronounce Nabet?

Is it na-BETT or NAB-it?

[ANna]

i think we all should have a fic... it would be pretty awesome for us all to have back stories

haha too bad I can't write. otherwise I'd come up with some back story and write a fic lol