Five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight. And, one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight. And, one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight. And, one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight. And, one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .

The numbers go round and round and round in her empty head. Over and over. Round and round and round and round, just like her body. One spin, two spin, lift and shoot. Bullet . . . bang . . . blow . . . spin . . . repeat.

Agent Thirteen was a weapon. A pretty little weapon that captivated hearts and loured them to their deaths. At the weapons hands or at the hands of the weapons welder.

Agent Thirteen was perfect. Perfect aim. Perfect spin. Perfect face. Perfect body. Perfect routine. Perfect weapon. Agent Thirteen was the one they needed the pen they wanted.

It's escape was the worst going. It was the best at everything. Everything and everything.

five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight. And, one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight. And, one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight. And, one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . . eight. And, one . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .

Pointed toes. Straight back. Strong legs. Perfect form. Spin. Step. Spin. Step. Down. Leg over. Up. Cock it. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Blow. Step back. Spin. Leg up. Stop.

Red light. Loud bang. Stop. Everything stops. Backs straight, legs straight, up on pointed toes. Head up. Respect is not earned, respect is only for those above.

Steps echo. The numbers stops. The heart plummets. The weapon is weak. It's heart beats, it's blood pumps, it is weak. It beats for someone.

The weapon has a weakness. Weaknesses must be terminated. It's arm is grabbed either side, it's neck is injected. It's heart stops, head down, chin to chest. It's body is dragged and strapped to a chair.

A weapon must comply. This weapon is broken. Perfect and damaged with the tiny crack of dopamine. Four years broke the weapon. The weapon that had been misplaced. Misplaced and miscalculated. Misplaced, miscalculated and a mistake. The perfect weapon was the perfect mistake?

The perfect mistake . . . makes the better weapon.

It's eyes snapped open, the glint was in her eyes. She smiled, a pretty and perfect smile that had hearts stop or hearts beat. She was an angel — so perfect sculpted in the image of perfection, Aphrodite's best creation. 

Whitest of skin, so unbelievably pale she looked surreal, skin that was never flawed or spotted. A ghost made of desire and perfection. Pale blonde hair, perfectly smooth that found itself going to her shoulders. Bright blue eyes, wide with innocence, surrounded in dark long eyelashes. Rosey cheeks, red lips. She was perfection. Childish innocence that was creepily desirable. She was perfectly created by their best and prettiest assassin, perfectly modified in a lab to be the best. The best being perfect.

There was no room for physical flaws, there we no room for flaws at all.

But her heart still beat. Svetlana was behind those wide eyes, Agent Thirteen wasn't her. She would not be it.

five . . . six . . . sev-en . . . eight. And, one . . . tw-o. . . three . . . four . . . fi-ve . . . s-ix . . . seven . . . eight. An-d, one . . . two . . . thr-ee . . . four . . . five . . . six . . . seven . . . eig-ht. And, one . . . tw-o . . . three . . . four . . . five . . . six . . . sev-en . . . eight. And, one . . . two . . . th-ree . . . four . . .

The numbers stopped. But emotion could not return, they had to stay deep behind her heart. Deep hidden. Emotions were not allowed in The Corporation.

Svetlana could pretend emotion didn't exist. Like she didn't have feelings, emotions or otherwise for others.

She could act. She did act, for almost a month, before the 'doctors' were dead at her feet. Her innocence standing over their bodies. She was gently pulled away, all the way to the top to see the boss.

He was scary. Scary was him. There was nothing about Vladimir Semenov that wasn't unnerving. His wondering eyes, calculated and cautious. His huge, muscular build that seemed to tower over everyone, especially a lab made girl who's height was five foot. The designer and tailored suits. The twist smile that made everyone cower back. Vladimir demanded attention simply by being there — there being anywhere. He controlled everything and everyone, especially his assassins, his ballerinas and his warriors. Agent Thirteen was his favourite, but god was she on thin ice.

"Boss." The men quivered as Svetlana awoke. Her eyes snapped open, wide as she searched the room, pulling out of their grip.

"Убирайся. Агент Тринадцать, приятно, что вы вернетесь." Vladimir spoke. Svetlana stared at him as the men left. She took no steps, her guard up. She knew he could read her — he knew she knew. The twisted smile turned to a mock of pity. Get out. Agent Thirteen it's a pleasure to have you back.

Svetlana crossed her arms, her heart beating hard against her chest. She was almost concerned her ribs would break and her skin would be ripped open by the beating muscle.

"Please, take a seat. Is English better on your ears."

"I don't want to sit. I want to go home."

Vladimir laughed, one singular, loud laugh. "This is your home, child, do not be stupid to believe Gotham is home."

"You're not my home."

Vladimir stood up, hands resting against his desk. His sleeves rolled up, too buttons of his shirt undone. "Neither is Amara and Reginald Oswald. Neither is Damian Wayne."

Damian Wayne? Her friend, a boy she grew to care for in a span of a few months. A boy who made her heart beat a little faster. A boy who made her so purely emotional. A boy who made her fragile. A boy who didn't feel like a friend.

Svetlana blinked. Her head shook, those thoughts were not worth her time. She silently stepped forward. Vladimir needed weakness to thrive, she was not weak. She will never be weak.

Svetlana mimicked his stance, head help up in confidence, hands supporting her weigh against the desk. Eye contact was made and it was the worst. The eyes were the windows to the soul and her soul was fragile. She started, she stayed strong.

Vladimir lifted one colossal hand and patted her head. "Oh, how cute. You always were my favourite. Perfectly made, perfect for us. But sit, child. Sit or your supposed home is no more."

She didn't want to be weak. She didn't want to sit down. But, Amara and Reginald were her home. Mouse was her home. She could not loose her safe place. Svetlana sat down, crossing her ankles and resting her hands neatly at her knees.

She needed to be perfect to win. Weakness could not be happening.

His back turns, it's a second. A second of freedom. A second to breath. A second to slouch. A second to take that gun and cock it. A second for him to turn back. A second for her back to straighten.

The mock of pity came back. He walked around the desk, standing in front of his ballerina, his favourite assassin. The perfect weapon. "Идеальное оружие, я осмелюсь попробовать." Perfect weapon, I dare you to try.

And try she did. But it would not budge. The bullet would not move. Was she so weak she couldn't use the trigger? Her heart beat, in her ears, in her throat and through her chest.

The bullets didn't shoot. She couldn't shoot. She couldn't!

Vladimir placed a hand to her face, wiping away the tears that had fallen down her cheeks. "Oh, child, you were always so perfect."

She didn't flinch, she didn't have the energy to move.

"So perfect. The perfect weapon, you are. I was almost thought you had worked it out." Vladimir spoke in the string accent, grabbing a needle from his desk. He placed the needle to her neck, slamming the sharpness into her skin. She did not flinch. "Pheromones, мое идеальное оружие." He said, pushing the clear liquid into her blood stream. Her pretty eyes fluttered shoot, her head resting forward. My perfect weapon.