by H L Stephens
Dorthia came over to me and smiled, offering her hand to me.
"You are coming with me now dear," she said. "You have learned a great deal from the others, but it is my turn to teach you a thing or two. I have my own knowledge to add to your war chest of survival skills."
I looked at Avery who gave me a silent nod, as if to say all was well. I felt awkward as though I was the toy being quibbled over by two discontented children. I said nothing, following obediently behind Dorthia towards my fate.
I had only ever seen Dorthia bustle about the vast warehouse kitchen, preparing the delectable meals that tempted us all from our daily rituals of training. Somehow, I failed to see how preparing cuisine would make me invisible or save me in the face of my enemies. I would rather know where to shoot the bad guy with one of Avery's guns.
We didn't go to the kitchen, but instead entered a room that would have been better suited on a Hollywood soundstage than a warehouse wired for war. Dorthia gave me a moment to absorb the overwhelming sights and smells. Costumes and clothing of every kind imaginable dazzled my eyes - from elegant ball gowns to menial maids' outfits. She even had a street bum getup that even smelled authentic.
"Is that real vomit?" I asked pointing to a chunky looking dried stain that ran down the front of the costume. Dorthia smiled and nodded as if she was proud of the authenticity of her work. The bile rose in my throat as we moved on.
We passed shelves that housed dozens of wigs of every style, color, and length. They were arranged like a Crayola Crayon box of fake hair. They weren't the kind of wigs Iggie and I used to get at the local five and dime for Halloween with the thick, wiry follicles that never seemed to lay against your head in quite the same way they were depicted in the photos on the packages. These wigs were different. I touched several of them in admiration. They had a supple quality to them that was much like my own hair.
"Are these made of real hair?" I asked, both fascinated and horrified at the same time.
"Some are made from human hair, some from yak or horse hairs, and some are made with a special kind of synthetic fiber with a deep memory. Each one is custom made."
I would have whistled in wonder, but my mouth ran dry.
The final bit of eye candy was the brightly lit makeup bench that covered an entire wall and could have accommodated the entire cast of Cats as they prepared for their performance. It had grand mirrors surrounded by brilliant, bare bulbs.
Before each mirror was a set of chairs that swiveled and rolled. I had never seen so much makeup before; not even in the collective horde of cosmetics of the Cheeky's dancers, and they had a lot of cosmetics. Dorthia had items on the tables I couldn't even begin to identify much less deduce their purpose. I had gotten as far as applying lip gloss in school, and that was as far as my expertise went.
When I had finished my tour of admiration, Dorthia sat me down in one of the many makeup chairs. Her expression was intense and very serious.
"What exactly do you think my specialty is, Jane?" she asked. Dorthia managed a smile but it was as abrupt in its termination as it was in its commencement.
For the first time, I was afraid to answer one of Dorthia's questions. The charm which she so liberally applied to every situation was gone now, replaced by a raw politeness that had a dangerous edge to it. I tried to take the safe route.
"I'm not sure," I said.
Dorthia took a seat of her own and rolled her chair closer.
"Oh come now," she said, again with her curt little smile. "You can hazard a guess, I am sure."
Dread seeped into my stomach. I was being challenged to enter into an uncertain realm, and I saw little else for me to do but leap right into the murky water which beaconed to me. I took a deep breath before taking the plunge.
"You are a devastatingly good cook?" I offered
I cringed even as the words issued past my lips. They sounded improbable to me as I contemplated the contents of the room in which we sat.
Dorthia laughed.
"Such skills have come in handy from time to time," she replied, "but no dear. The skills I bring to this crew do not lie in my ability to prepare a great meal. I am not their kitchen wench. Have you ever heard the phrase 'wet ops'?"
I shook my head.
"I suppose not," she said. "It is a term used primarily by those within the business. In some circles, they like to call it 'wet work'. I'm not too keen on that expression. It sounds more like something out of a pornographic movie to me, but in laymen's terms, I am the person who is called in when someone needs to be eliminated."
"You mean fired?"
"No dear, I mean killed."
"What are you, some kind of sniper?"
Dorthia laughed again.
"No, Jane. That is more Avery's business. I am the one they call when a sniper can't get a clean shot; when someone needs to be killed in close quarters."
"You mean like an assassin?"
"Precisely."
I looked at Dorthia; at her average height, her average face, the innocuousness of every aspect of her. I studied every inch of her looking for a ruthless killer wearing the ninja mask, hopping from rooftop to rooftop, hunting her prey. Dorthia's sensible nurse's shoes kept killing the image for me.
"I can't see it," I said, finally. "I can't see you as an assassin. An actress maybe. Perhaps even a shrewd diplomat, but an assassin? No."
"That is precisely the point, Jane," Dorthia said with a smile. This time, it was filled with her old charm. "You see, I have the skills of the sniper, and I have used them when it suited my needs, but most of my targets have been individuals who were smart enough to stay out of the sniper's crosshairs. When a target goes underground, deep underground, you must send someone in after them. You don't always have the luxury of waiting for them to pop their head out so you can burst it like a tick on a dog."
"How?" I asked. "How can you reach someone who is smart enough to avoid someone like Avery?"
"By transforming yourself into what the target will not suspect," Dorthia replied. "In that way, you can get close enough to take the target out face to face."
"But how?" I asked.
"Watch and learn little Jane," Dorthia said as she pinned up her hair and tucked it under a fine mesh cap.
Dorthia positioned herself at the first station where she washed and moisturized her skin. Other products she applied from various jars and bottles which were unrecognizable, but the process was elaborate.
"This is perhaps the most important step dear Jane to ensure everything else goes on smoothly. If you are careless in your base preparation, you may give yourself away and get yourself killed."
The next station was the spackling station. At least that is what I called it. Tubes of goo and tubs of pastes of every skin shade imaginable were laid out like a flesh-colored rainbow. Dorthia selected a mid-tone hue from one tub and began to apply it with such abandon and skill that soon all distinguishable features on her face were gone. She had no lines or age spots, no moles or scars. Even her eyebrows were undistinguishable beneath the layer of spackling she had applied. She was for all intents and purposes a blank canvas. That is when the real magic began.
The third station contained what some might consider the more conventional makeup, but Dorthia didn't apply it in any conventional way I had ever seen. She used it to sculpt her features in a manner unbeknownst to me before.
I had watched the illustrious ladies of Cheeky's apply their wares many times. The makeup was flashy and plentiful. In the dim lights of the club, with liquor pouring like the River Jordon and with the rhythmic pulse of the disco ball, the gaudy application of cosmetics seemed almost artistic. In the reality of the noonday sun, however, it often looked more like a Mary Kay cosmetics van had smacked into a herd of water buffalo. But such is the manner of stage makeup, or so I am told.
Dorthia made the brushes dance across her face with true artistic ability, and as I watched, the woman I had grown to know and love disappeared, slowly to be replaced
by her emerging creation. Every bit of exposed skin received her attention. When she was done with the makeup, she inserted colored contacts and a set of false teeth that locked in place over her natural ones. She got up, selected a wig and a dress and went behind a changing screen in the far corner of the room. When she stepped out from behind the screen, I almost fell out of my chair.
Dorthia was now a lovely forty something, Hispanic woman. Had I not watched her transformation with my own eyes, I would not have recognized her. Even having seen her conversion, I kept rubbing my eyes and staring at her, trying to find evidence of the woman I knew. I couldn't find any.
The woman who now stood before me smiled.
"I will take the bewildered look on your face as the highest compliment," she said.
It sounded like Dorthia, but my eyes still were deceived by the appearance which did not match what I had grown accustomed to seeing.
"This is amazing," I said after some time, "and a bit disturbing. I am not certain what to say."
"You needn't say anything," Dorthia said. "What I have done is merely technique and something anyone can learn to do, but it is only half of what is required in a transformation. When being someone else, it can mean your life if you stop here. I may appear Hispanic, but every aspect of my voice, behavior, and language should match what I appear to be if I have any hope of infiltrating an organization or group that is from say South America. This," she said indicating her entire body, "is but a small piece of what it takes to reach your goal, take out your target, and then make your escape."
Dorthia sat down next to me.
"This isn't a game Jane," she said. "Your life is at stake ever second you are out there. It is nothing like what you see in the movies. There is no glamour to what I do. It is raw and dark and dangerous. And unlike the movies, you don't have to be beautiful to be a female assassin. As a matter of fact, being naturally beautiful when you are an assassin can get you tracked down and killed faster than a sloppy cleanup and a calling card with your picture and home address on it. Being plain is better. If you look ordinary, you are better equipped to disappear when the job is done. If you are beautiful, everyone remembers you. Being remembered is not a good thing when most of the underworld wants you dead and your own government is having a constant debate over whether it should take you out of the picture for good. As an assassin, it is preferable to be just one more face in the crowd. A ghost. A shadow. Someone the world forgets and no one remembers. Like being in high school, except without the bullying."
"But you look beautiful now," I said. "Doesn't that fly in the face of what you just said? How would you blend in looking like that?"
"I will show you," Dorthia said. "You never want your natural face to be exposed to the world; not if you can help it. Remember Jane, in this day and age, cameras are everywhere, and whether you are an assassin or just a damned good spy, the more your natural face is seen out and about, the more attention you will draw to yourself. Agencies have hoards of analysts dedicated to finding patterns, and that includes finding the reoccurrence of a person's presence when certain activities occur. So if important people pop up dead left and right and you always happen to be in the vicinity, governments and their think tanks will start to notice. Now, watch and learn."
With lightning precision, Dorthia began to strip elements of beauty from her face while maintaining the ethnic appearance of a Hispanic woman. Within a few minutes, she had transformed from a full lipped, sultry woman guaranteed to catch the eye of every man she passed to a thin lipped, average Hispanic woman who might have passed unnoticed wherever she went.
"You see Jane, the real key to success in being a female assassin is being able to transform yourself just long enough to get close to your target. Usually, your target is a man, so it means turning yourself into the object of men's desires. Remember, the goal is to take the target out for good; not take him home to meet your family. The men I have hunted wanted the façade I offered. The glimmer of beauty and sensuality. It didn't have to be real for them; it just had to feel real. Most people relish the illusion. After all, their life is full of transitory, illusory things. Power, money, infamy, strength. The illusions in life crumble as quickly as a sandcastle against the might of a single wave, yet people invariably surround themselves with their trappings. I leverage their desires against them. The illusions get me in; the reality gets me out and safe. Like I said, a plain woman makes the perfect assassin, assuming she has the skills and the stomach to become something she's not."
I looked at myself in the mirror. I thought of my first family - murdered, destroyed by men who had no conscience, no soul. I thought of my second family - threatened by the same men who now hunted me. These men had already sent one angel of death to find me. He now lay in a pile of ash at the bottom of a pit in the middle of nowhere. My hand had helped put him there.
I had already taken my first step down the same dark path as Dorthia. In my young, naive mind, it seemed as though it was the only path which could advance me to my freedom. I didn't know what the future held as I stared at my reflection in the mirror, but I was certain about one thing. I wanted the nightmare of being hunted to end. It was time to turn the tables on my enemies. Now was the time for the hunters to become the hunted.
"Where do I start?" I asked.
The Dark Arts
In the time I spent with the crew, I learned many a dark art. From Marcus came skills of system hacking, bomb making, lock picking and many other mysteries related to circuitry. Jameson taught me how to bring a man to the edge of death and then yank him back again. From Oz and Avery, I discovered the art of fighting in every form and fashion one might imagine.
I learned Brazil's outlawed Martial Art of capoeira, the Filipino escrima, the Cambodian bokator, Russian systema and sambo, with a large sprinkle of Israeli Krav Maga thrown in for good measure. The two master fighters taught me other street fighting techniques which had no name so far as I knew. None of the dark arts I was driven to conquer, however, could compare with the grueling, daunting challenge of mastering Dorthia's makeup and elocution techniques.
Give me body punishing torso blows and rough-and-tumble stick fighting any day of the week, but applying liquid liner and wearing high heels with grace were beyond my grasp. If my goal was to infiltrate a Goth gang where every member looked like they had run face first into a coal truck, my technique was flawless, but ask me to attempt any sort of refinement in my application and the results were less than stellar.
After weeks of practice, my first grand attempt at a more complex transformation received a hearty guffaw from Avery, a roaring belly laugh from Oz, and snickers from the usually sensitive-to-my-feelings Jameson and Marcus.
Dorthia tried to make me feel better with her response.
"It's really not that bad," she said when I made my grand entrance, but her own barely concealed laughter offered me little reassurance.
"She looks like a cross dresser who's spent the last three days in the drunk tank," Avery blurted out, which made him and Oz laugh even harder.
I ran from the room in tears, and as I did, I heard Dorthia scolding the men for being insensitive baboons. I went back to Dorthia's room of wonders and sat down in front of the mirror. The longer I stared at my tear stained face, the more I realized Avery's assessment wasn't off base. I did look a bit like a drunken cross dresser, but having Avery say it the way that he had didn't help matters. I felt awkward and gawky in Dorthia's realm of glamour and beauty. It had never been a place that suited me well. Even back in Ironco, Texas where men seemed to outnumber women two to one, I was usually considered just 'one of the guys'.
The ladies from Cheeky's were always gently offering tips on what I could do with my hair and my clothes. When you are working on cars, rebuilding a house, or digging in a garden, fancy duds really didn't have a place. My general style during those times was a ponytail and scroungey clothes. It was my preferred means of dress. I liked the simplicity of it. There was no artifice.
In some ways, it was as close to being naked as a person could get because all that was left as you stood there in your faded shirt and worn jeans was yourself. People weren't overcome by some kind of false glitz or glamour.
I felt more joy in those soul-baring simple clothes of mine than I ever had in the painted glamour of womanly wares. Heels and taffeta had never made me feel fulfilled the way that mucking about in innocuous raiments had. I would rather be digging in the dirt with my mom or grease-monkeying with my dad than painting my face and clubbing with friends. I wasn't any good at the later activities anyways as I just proved. At least not the face painting part.
Between my failed transformation and the memories of home, the tears came in even greater profusion. I did not hear Dorthia when she entered the room. It wasn't until I felt the gentle pressure of her hand upon my shoulder that I realized I was not alone.
"Don't take Avery's teasing to heart Jane," Dorthia said. "He wouldn't poke fun at you if he didn't like you so much. Besides, your efforts weren't that bad. You just need a bit more practice. You should have seen my first major attempt. It was awful.” "The point is dear, you shouldn't feel so disheartened. You will master the art of illusion just as you are learning to master everything else we present to you. Some skills just take a bit more effort and time."
Dorthia handed me a box of tissues.
"It's not that," I said.
I scrubbed at my eyes with the full intent of rubbing away my failed attempt at altering my appearance. Nothing came off on the tissues.
"Trust me dear, it won't come off that way," Dorthia said. "You have to use the proper goo to remove it. The truth is, you don't want it coming off any other way. That is one surprise you wouldn't fancy when you are out in the field; your face melting before your enemy's eyes."
