I should've known Ash would find out sooner or later. Rumors spread, trickling down from parents who use my family's services to solve their problems, but then talk about us as if we're monsters behind our backs. Soon, their children overhear the gossip before their parents strictly forbid them from having anything to do with me or my family.

Oh well, at least I could say I had a friend for a full day. That was a new record for me.

When Ash sat down at my lonely cafeteria table he didn't hesitate to jump right into business. "A couple of girls came up to me and told me some interesting stuff about you and your family. Is it true?"

I deflected the topic as much as I could. "Is what true?" I took a bite out of my salad with croutons shredded cheese, cherry tomatoes, apple slices, and walnuts. Before you make fun of me by asking what seventh grader eats salads, I'll let you know that the one who is an assassin does. I don't do meat.

"Come on Zay," he said a bit playfully. "Is your family really a part of a gang?"

A gang I can deal with. Somehow, that was a couple of rungs lower on the ladder of evil. A family of elite assassins was much worse. It was slightly above a family who sings Christmas carols in October.

My silence was an admission to the truth.

"Oh my God, your family is a part of a gang." Ash suddenly was on the edge of his seat, leaning closer. "Which one? Is it the Locusts? I love those guys."

That surprised me. My face probably looked like I just saw a zombie riding a dolphin.

Ash explained himself. "If I'm being honest, I like what the Locusts fight for. They fight because even a bug's life is meaningful."

I decided to play along and not mention the fact that I was in the Locusts' rival gang and was in fact about to go slaughter a bunch of recruits after school. "Yes, a worthy cause."

"So it's true then. Zay, that makes you much more awesome. What division is your family a part of? I heard the Royden Hive is the strongest."

I tried to focus more on my salad than this conversation.

"No way," Ash read my need to change the topic wrongly. "You're a part of the Royden Hive! You must know The Queen then?"

By now I had finished my salad and had no way to distract myself. "Look Ash, I really don't feel comfortable talking about this. Can we chat about something else?"

Ash sat back and nodded. "Sure, I'm sorry. I just, I respect certain gangs for what they do."

"You mean murder, sell drugs, and gang banging?" I filled in. How could this son of a mayor be infatuated with the gang life? Was he insane?

"Well, that's a part of it," Ash admitted. "But it's not all. Most gangs are formed to protect the most vulnerable people. But, why am I telling you this. You know why the Locusts formed—to stop the Reapers who want to keep away the poor."

I wanted to rebuttal that the Locusts weren't all clean and squeaky themselves. But if I'm going to lead Ash to believe I was a part of them, then I couldn't appear to be siding with the Reapers at all. That was like a Cubs fan switching over to the Sox.

Luckily, I was saved by the bell signaling the end of lunch. As I got up to toss my food, Ash followed me with his lunch. "I was thinking we can do the math problems after school together. I'm not very good with volume and surface area."

There was nothing I would like more than to sit down after school and do homework with a friend like a normal seventh grader. But I had training, followed by my family project to get done.

"I'm really busy today Ash."

I saw his ears lower like a sad puppy.

"But," I tried not to push away my only chance at having a friend. "If you want to show me to your father's office on Friday, I'd be down."

His face lit up like a Christmas tree. "Cool! I'll tell my dad."

As we left lunch for class, I was only hoping I could keep that arrangement. The life of an assassin was very much like the life of a journalist—you have to be on call at any moment.

***

The branding center wasn't hard to find, nor was it well guarded. It was designed to look like a normal tattoo parlor, except for the sticker of a locust on the store window that was mixed in with a variety of other possible designs ranging from stars and lions to names of loved ones and Chinese lettering.

In fact, when I walked in, I was young enough for them to confuse me for one of the new members.

There was a black lady engrossed in a conversation on her smartphone. "You should've seen him girl acting all high and mighty thinking he was some sort of chivalrous knight. When I come home at the end of the day, mamma needs that real sugar, she ain't looking for no Splenda," she said the last word as if the sugar substitute really made her gag. Then she noticed me.

"Hold up girl," she pulled her phone from her ear. "What a little white girl like you doing over here. You lost or something?"

I like to consider myself olive since my family came from Iberian backgrounds, but I guess she really couldn't tell the difference beneath my false face mask. Gotta hide my identity somehow.

"I'm here for the initiation," I said.

The girl scowled at me, wondering if I was up to no good. "Take the stairs down in the back. And keep the yelping down, I got a business to run."

I thanked her and left as she went back to her conversation. "Nothing but some little white girl not knowing what she's getting into."

I made my way towards the back of the parlor. Business was pretty slow. I saw two customers and five chairs left open. One tattoo artist was watching highlights of the Bulls game on his smartphone and arguing with his friends how they stood no chance at making the playoffs.

A curtain partitioned the parlor from the back, and I passed through to hear muttering below. I turned towards the stairs and made my way down, dressed in tattered jeans, a hoodie, and my black backpack. My right hand was resting near my neck, inches away from the hilt of my sword that was hidden behind my backpack.

When I reached the bottom of the stairs, I was faced by two bodyguards armed with pistols. They wore black muscle shirts that showed a whole lot of skin. They had their arms crossed as they stared down at me and grinned.

"You lost or something," one of them asked.

I was already tired of being asked this question. It was like I had to be relegated to a certain part of town because of the color of my skin. As an assassin I need my freedom of movement without racist questions being asked.

"Nope," I said. "Here for the initiation."

The guards looked at each other, their grins growing wider. "Oh, these eight stages will be fun for her."

"I need to be there for the swarm stage," another commented as he unlocked the door. "Good luck beautiful."

Gross.

He opened up the door and I stepped in as they shut it behind me. I was in the back of a group of about 22 individuals of all ages, but mostly children in their late teens. I noticed I was one of five girls there, and the only one there whose skin stuck out.

The place looked like a massive barber shop. Along the walls were rows of reclining chairs in front of mirrors and sinks, organized with razors, needles, and inks. A man in front of the room was pacing back and forth and addressing the group.

"You all have taken the first step in liberating yourselves from the chains that the rich have burdened upon you. For that I congratulate you. But, to put a little perspective on this, half of you will drop out before graduating to become a member of our rebellion."

Murmurs scattered across the group like rice being fed to pigeons of doubt.

The man spoke above the side-conversations. "We only require the strongest soldiers for our cause. And for that, we have set up an eight-stage initiation process that takes months to complete. The first stage is a false positive. Don't let its simplicity dictate the level of intensity of the other seven that'll come. Sadly, I cannot tell you what each stage will entail. I can only tell you what you will undergo today."

He motioned to the chairs along the walls. "Each stage has an activity and a homework assignment. Today's activity is simple. You will receive the mark of the locust. This single mark is a sign that you have started your path towards joining our organization."

He pulled up his short sleeve and ripped off a patch of fake skin. Hiding beneath was a cluster of eight giant locusts slowly spreading wings and taking flight, surrounded by a swarm of other locusts in mid-flight that surrounded it. Many others disappeared beneath the layer of fake skin that he eventually pasted back on to cover his tattoos.

"In order to unlock your wings, you will face many trials, but if you complete them all, you'll be a part of the swarm, and you'll always have a family to protect you from the dangers of the rich and powerful tyrants who seek to subjugate us."

He pointed to the empty chairs. "Now, take your seats."

Everyone started to scatter and choose a seat. Tattoo artists went to work first shaving hair around the head and any around the arm where they would be painting their masterpieces. I had no clue why they were shaving the heads, but one kid asked that, and the artist briefly explained that it was for the inscription of their hive. Anyone can falsify a locust tattoo on the arm, but few would falsify a hive's mark on the scalp.

Within a few minutes, most people had taken their seats. The only people left standing was me, and two ten-year-old black kids, by far the youngest in the group. Their bodies shook as they saw what was happening and I could tell they were getting cold feet.

The leader stepped forward and I got a good look at his face. He had a scar that went down from his jaw to his Adam's apple, as if someone tried to plant a stick to make a caramel apple. He tried hiding the scar with a beard, but it didn't reach down low enough to cover his neck. He wasn't as strong looking as the muscle heads guarding the door outside, but he didn't look any more innocent.

He smiled at us. "It's wise to back out now. Come back when you're ready. You won't get that decision past the fourth stage anyway. The two kids nodded and scrammed faster than had they heard the laugh of a killer clown.

Meanwhile, I stood behind and the guy tilted his head. "And what's your problem ghost? You gonna leave or you gonna take a seat."

I looked at him in the eye and sighed. Now it was time to go to work. "I'll take a seat once you choose how to die."

The guy's eyes widened before he busted out into unrelenting laughter. It was so loud the tattoo artists stopped shaving hair and looked towards what was all the commotion. Then the inductees started looking at us as well.

"Aren't you a dangerous cloud. You can leave now before I snap your neck."

Double sigh, now he was the first one who had to die. Any serious threat of death made onto a member of the RC had to be dealt with swiftly. Which meant, I couldn't give him my options.

"Are you deaf bitch, I said..."

He never got to finish his threat because I reopened his jaw to neck scar with my sword in a simple flick of a wrist. He collapsed to the ground, trying to keep himself together. As he squirmed around on the floor, I flicked the droplets of blood off of my sword.

"Option one, I cut you down like I did your summer camp counselor."

By now I had everyone's attention. Some made it look like their chairs were vibrating and giving them massages. Others underestimated me with their death stares.

"Option two," I said, pulling out a canister from my black bag. "I unleash this canister of highly concentrated Zyklon B that will slowly burn your lungs until you die."

The leader on the floor was crawling towards me, but I sidestepped his hand reaching for my leg and pointed my sword at the entire room as I eyed everyone. "Option three, I do what your leader says and take a seat while you all fight to the death with your bare hands. The last one standing in this room gets to live."

I paused to let my options sink in. Then I stared around the room. "Since this is a large group, I'll have you all vote democratically on the option of your choice."

One of the tattoo artists chuckled. He stepped forward and pulled out a knife from his drawer and stepped closer towards me. "You really think you're a match for all of us?" A couple of others followed his lead.

"If you do not select an option, an option will be selected for you," I spoke like an AI. It gets old putting emphasis in that line every time I kill someone who thinks they can take me on.

"I choose this," the resistant tattoo artist said right before he lunged forward towards me and right into the path of my sword. Sadly, his neck was blocking the way and his head paid the price.

The others saw this and unleashed all their attacks on me at once. It was pretty pathetic seeing people who handle sharp instruments as a part of their daily job lunge like a trainee fencer with no arms. They had dyes and powders they could've tossed at me to blind me. Then they could've used that advantage and their numbers to at least get a scratch on me.

Now they all laid dead with much bigger scratches on them.

I flicked the blood off of my sword. I faced the remaining faces and sighed a third time. "Now, will you vote, or will I choose."

Scared into submission, they all looked at each other menacingly, determined not to die here today.

Let the Hunger Games begin.