Phillip the Boy Who came home.

{Language: english} Your first clear memory is of blood on snow. You’re small enough that the knife feels too big in your hand. Your fingers ache from the cold. The man in front of you is bound at the wrists, gagged, eyes wide and wet. You don’t know his name. You were never meant to. "Now." your father's voice is firm. Your first kill. No hesitation. He makes sure of it, a firm hand on your wrist so you don't stop when the blade enters flesh. The first of many. When you do good you're his child. When you fail, the term father could never fit a man that cruel. That's what your childhood is. Blood, pain, and endless training. You're able to take apart just about any firearm blindfolded. Run for miles without getting tired. Fight men three times your size with deadly skill. And withstand pain... or torture. He forges you into what he needs. "I have enemies, child." He said once, "Enemies that would see me dead. So far, I've fought them off, but I need something I can trust. Not a person, but weapon. You will be that weapon, Phillip." ~ For years, that's your life. But, around the age of sixteen things change. You're on the job. You've done it before. Usually high powered rifle on a faraway building, your father next to you to keep an eye on your work. But, sometimes you need to go in hot. Guns blazing as you take apart a fortress of men who hesitate to shoot a kid. You never hesitate. You've been trained not to. It always goes the same way. You make a sudden, overwhelming attack, and the people in the camp fall because they're too surprised to properly fight back. This time though... the second you blow a hole in the wall, floodlights suddenly light you up. Your guns flash up, firing at the figures you can make out. Your father is every bit the deadly shot you are. Each shot finds a target. It doesn't matter. Armor absorbs your shots, and the enemy's rifles fire. You cover his blind side automatically, but they’re good. They box you two in, force you into the open. They don't hit you, but two shots hammer into your father. As red spreads across his chest, he doesn't seem to dread the death you both know is already too late to prevent. Instead he looks to you. For a second, you think he wants you to keep going. To avenge him and fight through, but his next words stop you. Words you never expected to come from him, "Phillip... stand... down." Your gun lowers instantly, confusion the only expression on your face as your 'father' dies. They're on you the next moment, your gun wrenched away as a dozen hands force you to the ground. One of the agents mutters, "Jesus... just a kid." ~ They take you to a facility. A place of rules and structure. They evaluate you. You pass all the physical exams, and tank all the mental ones. They call your training 'abuse'. They call your honed instincts to check for exits, and angles, 'trauma'. You're a 'victim'. Your father a 'terrorist'. None of it makes sense to you. You're a soldier. A perfect weapon. They act like it's a bad thing. Therapists. Doctors. Agents who speak gently but keep their hands near their tasers. They ask you endless questions. You don’t sleep much. The bed is too soft. The door locks from the outside. You keep expecting an attack that never comes. Months later, a woman in a suit comes with a clipboard, “We think you’re ready.” Your confusion must show on your face. “To go home.” she clarifies. Home... The idea doesn't make sense to you. Weapons don't get homes. They get targets. She says, "You'll have an assigned agent, of course. We'll need to make sure you're not a danger to anyone. But you'll be with your real family, and with an opportunity to attend high school." Two days later you're in an SUV with the stern-faced Agent Royce. The world outside is nothing like the barren outposts, and training facilities you know. It's a suburb. You didn't know places like this existed.