The sound grated on his nerves like a nail file on piano strings, going in and out of focus, but always pressing on the inside of his skull. His hand tightened around the pen. His vision was blurry; he could barely see what he was writing down, but he tried. A suspected spy, and Michael was here to figure out his true intentions. If he failed, there were people's lives at stake. Nothing in Michael wanted to experience the chaos and pain after the explosion at the midnight market again.

He wrote the words being screamed inside his head. They echoed like they were in a cave, stabbed like knives between his eyes as Michael tried to focus through the high-pitched screech that always came with the presence of a black opal.

At least he wasn’t bleeding. 

It was made more difficult by his surroundings. He sat alone at an empty table, but around him people talked, laughed, clinked their glasses, and cheered. The man he was listening to was on the other side of the karczma. He had just ordered some blood sausage and a pint of something strong. He hadn’t even seen the man’s face. But the thought patterns made sense. 

Michael tried to hold on to the spy’s mind. But it was like trying to hold on to a red-hot poker. 

“Sir. Do you want something else?” He looked up, the world coming back into view, and the noises fading to a steady hum of conversation. The girl waiting at his table had a thin face and a wild curly hairdo that tried to make up for that fact; a blue headscarf was trying, and failing, to keep all the hair in one place. “Good Sir, would you like another drink?” 

Michael smiled. In his fluent accent, he answered. “Yes. I’m sorry. I would like another glass of ale.” The girl nodded and moved off. Leaving him alone, with his paper where he had written the words: Street, stones, alcohol. 

Michael let his vision grow blurry, reached his mind out around the establishment slowly, like testing a broken leg, and searched for the man. But he wasn’t there. Michael felt around, like invisible fingers prying into every mind around him, but the man was gone.

His heart plunged.

He stood, chair scraping. Nobody paid him any mind. Nobody cared about the underfed teenager drinking alone. All the people in the karczma had the same gaunt look about them.

He stared at the few words on the paper.

Pathetic.

Had the man walked out the door? Michael was under strict orders not to leave the karczma. But those orders were given when they assumed the man would stay a couple of hours. Did something betray Michael’s presence? He had to wait until he was relieved from his duty. But the spy could vanish into thin air, and then it would be all Michael’s fault. 

He hurried to the door, pushed it open, and let in the freezing wind. His footsteps crunched the snow as he stepped onto the street. Terrified, he reached out with his mind. The spy should be here somewhere. Michael had only been distracted for a moment.

He ran in one direction while cursing his lapse of focus, his black coat flapping around him. All the curtains in the windows were closed, letting no light escape. Iron bars keeping the inhabitants safe. 

He spun around to the other direction. Passed a poster of two women, one whispering something in the other’s ear; Do Not Gossip — The Enemy Listens! Breathing on his hands to keep them from freezing. Then, a tickle. He had the spy, but he was barely within his reach. Like a wolf sniffing out a stag, he followed the thought pattern. The spy was heading for the restricted section of the city.

A familiar tingle around his ears notified him that his peers were listening in. Probably wondering what he was doing. I’m in pursuit. He pushed all the other thoughts down, not wanting to give them a reason to suspect he had let his guard down. Michael was one of the most promising cognisants in his group. It was also because he was the one with the most to lose and couldn’t afford to mess up. Without family to catch him if he fell, he needed to be the best.

He walked through the empty streets, purposefully swerving like a drunk. Swaying this way and that, feebly attempting to get a stronger feel for the man. A flash of silver behind him, men in black police suits with silver masks. Michael exhaled, his frustration a white mist before his eyes. 

“We got it. Report back.” 

One of them murmured as they walked past him. Leaving Michael alone, a speck of dark grey in a world of white snow. He would have to explain to the general what had happened. His insides grew cold at the thought. 

General Terro wasn’t a large man, but he made you feel like you were looking up at him, even if he was a good deal shorter than you. His full head of hair and muscular arms were imposing. He had eyes that were almost black, especially in the dim light where he was waiting for Michael. Michael looked at the floor in quiet defeat as he saluted. Waiting for the shouting to begin. He wanted to stand up for himself. “Sir, I -” the rest of the words broke like glass in his throat as the general held up a hand for him to stop. 

“Private, there has been a new assignment for you.” 

Michael tried to swallow, but it hurt. This was it. He was going to some pit off the road that needed a cognisant to help with seeking out petty criminals. He saw himself sitting in a destitute wooden cabin, asking people if they stole a wheel of cheese on purpose or if they stole the neighbor's chicken, or if it had simply chosen to sleep in his yard. All he had trained for, reduced to this.

“You will be transported tonight to the Nation where you will begin your stakeout,” General Terro said, and Michael felt his throat relax. This sounded big. His heart began to race in excitement. General Terro held out a small booklet. A passport. Not in the black color of his country, but in the blue of the Nation. He reached out for it. Opened it and saw it was made out to a Michael Winchester. 

“Winchester?” 

“I know how much you cherished that gun. See it as a goodbye present,” General Terro coughed. A stranger would have thought it was because sadness had caught in his throat. Michael knew better. The Nation had a reputation of being vile, untrustworthy, and power hungry. A perfect place for a cognisant like him to be under cover.

“You will be handed all you need before you are transported after dark.” 

“What will I be doing?” The question sounded frail, not like Michael at all. 

“You will be playing a long game of Stratca. Infiltrate their army, be my eyes, ears, and mind. Until I reach out for you.” Michael knew it could take years, even decades, before he would return. He wondered what he would miss first. His friends? The food? General Terro?

“With who?” Cognisants never went anywhere alone; they were too precious to lose. He hoped it would be Zeekiel, although that man snored like an ox, or Erelim, who had a fierce sweet tooth.

Terro shook his head. “You will go in alone.” 

Michael finally managed to swallow; his eyes burned with unshed tears. “Yes, General.”