Embarass a politican at a charity gala

“So, you are probably wondering what your test will be. It's simple, really – a field exercise, under supervision of an agent already in situ. You're going to help Scott Jones lose his bid for re-election. Mr Jones is old money, and his family's connections have seen him inherit a seat considered completely safe. What we need is a little scandal to throw that open.”

So, that's the test: effectively help rig an election by sabotaging a candidate's chances. You're glad they're starting you gently. But then at no point have they ever done so: you recall you first, awkward encounter with “Alex” as “Jenny”. That was a first day to remember.

“All right,” you say, understanding the brief fully. It seems relatively straightforward. “How much of a scandal?”

“That's for you to decide. We want the election to be a contest: you're not going to destroy him, just throw the election wide open. Tomorrow night he'll be attending a charity gala. Well, I say charity; the reality is it's for his re-election war chest. That's where you'll strike.”

Next to Harry's face a blur of intel whizzes past: key names, dates, events, table plans – the works. Everything the Organization has on the event and Mr Jones. It's too much for you to take in, but you try to concentrate. Harry laughs.

“Don't try and take in the intel. As you're flying solo for the first time – in the field, with no support, but with the same level of control as any operative – you're getting Blanked. That will help.”

What the hell is Blanking? Nobody has ever even breathed a word about it before, either in class or during downtime. “Harry?” you ask, uncertain. Harry laughs again.

“Head to Gunther, he'll clarify what you do. After that, you're getting mailed to your handler. That's all your getting from this briefing – opaque I know, but that's part of the test. Now off you go.”

*****

You're still confused, reeling from the sudden announcement and new information, as you enter the lab again. Gunther beckons you over, flicking switches, looking concerned, twisting dials that give readouts that make little sense to the untrained. Eventually he points to something that looks like a Van Der Graff generator: a smooth chrome orb suspended by a column.

“Hands out, place on top” he says, indicating the machine. You step closer.

“What does it do?” Gunther barely looks up from his contraption, instead focusing his attention on several computer monitors simultaneously.

“What is the worst thing that can happen to you?” he asks. This is a common Organization question: they want this hardwired in. The answer is not dying. If you die in another's skin, or your own, that can be covered up.

“Exposure. Letting someone find out about us. Getting caught.”

“Correct. Now, we don't want that to happen, but...” the old man shrugs nonchalantly, as always his movements far too rapid for his supposed age, “accidents happen, don't they? Field work is unpredictable, ya? So we use Blanking. Now hold.”

You're uncomfortable with this, but you have little option. Your hands clasp on to the cold, slippery orb surface. Gunther flips a switch.

You shudder violently, as an electric bolt fires through you: it feels as if every muscle in your body spasms before relaxing again. “Fucking hell!”

Gunther doesn't laugh at your reaction: he betrays virtually no emotion about it. “Now, tell me how do you feel?”

You look at your hands and body. Everything seems normal, and you begin to shake off the soreness of the electric shock. Then you spot your reflection in the polished dome surface. You lean in, staring hard at it.

Your face. It isn't yours anymore. It's almost yours – there are traces you recognize. But every single prominent feature you had has been erased. You look... average. The only word for it. As if someone took the image of everyone in your age group and ethnicity, fed them into a computer, and asked them to produce an average face. You stare deep at your image. It reminds you of a video game character's face sliders being set to the mid-point.

“Why didn't you just use the red pen? I could have done that easily enough.” It's true: it's you, just with heavy plastic surgery. Enough that, should you be caught, you doubt anyone could trace you back to your old life.

“Because the red pen affects the body, but not the mind. You now have a safety net; a neural block that prevents anyone from finding out too much if you get caught.”

“I don't feel a block.” You feel like some mad scientist has just electrocuted you.

“You shouldn't; what would be the point in that? It would just prevent you from remembering your training. Think of it like a firewall, only open to zose with user access: you, and us, ya? Now, how do you feel? Emesis is a common side effect.”

“I'm fine.” A little groggy perhaps, but... you're going down. A buzzing sound fills your ears, like a fly behind your eardrum. Your head pounds with intense pain, pain drumming to the rhythm of your heartbeat. Suddenly you realize you're on the floor, cradling your head. You feel dizzy and faint. The world turns to darkness, black and blue spots flooding your vision. You're having some kind of fit, and the world is fading in and out. You can see shoes – Gunther's, you think – as you spin on the floor.

Then everything goes utterly dark. In the distance, you can hear your own scream.