An alert...

You're sliding the door closed behind you as you follow Robin into the beauty parlor, ready to lock the door and make the switch, when there's a call from the receptionist.

"Wes, honey?"

You lean back to make eye contact with her. "Yes, hon?"

"Phone for you."

You flick your eyes toward the patiently-waiting Robin, Wes's tones taking on an offended snarl. "I'm with a client!"

"Says her name's Lou, needs to speak with you about a dishwasher? That you'd understand?"

"Ugh." You turn to Robin, holding your arms up in mock surrender. "I am so sorry about this. I will be right with you." You strut over to the reception, picking up the phone. Your Wes muscle memory is your guide, and you keep your exterior composure. Inside, though, you're panicking. Before you started this charade, you agreed codewords in case you had to abort. Lou is how Elena would identify herself, if she had to switch skins and she could - it's a gender neutral name. Dishwasher was the panic button: it meant she had to speak to you in private instantly. Wes's arm scoops up the phone and pulls it to his ear.

"If this is about fixing appliances, I told your colleague this morning. It's not the dishwasher, it's the freezer." Freezer - code for 'you can speak freely'. You doubt anyone is going to be listening on another line. You hear Elena's voice immediately.

"Get out now. This minute."

"Have I..."

"This minute. Drop that face you're wearing and look for a red sedan out back. Abort, abort, abort."

The line clicks dead, and you set the phone down. You can't help but let a look of utter shock pass your face.

"Hon, are you OK?"

You turn to Wes' colleague, recovering your composure. "Yeah, fine. Just... don't ever get a relative of a friend to fix your kitchen, OK?"

You turn on your heel, promise Robin it'll take one more minute, and slip out back. There, as hurriedly as possible, you get out of Wes, restore him, and use the white pen to make sure he knows he's got a customer to attend to, and has been telling people he's got a broken kitchen freezer. Tracks covered - albeit loosely - you dash out of the door.

*****

Elena's still wearing the fortune teller's skin as you climb into the front seat, almost immediately shocked by the rapid acceleration. You don't even have time to put on your seatbelt.

"What the hell? Did I expose myself?"

"No, it's not you," Elena says, concentrating on driving. "We've got a Class Blue and that means training is over."

"Class..."

"Class Blue. Blue is bad. It means we've got a shitstorm." Elena is utterly composed throughout all of this; the language seems to flow rather than be uttered in panic. "That means we've got a real risk of exposure. Something, somewhere, went seriously wrong. Everyone goes into automatic lockdown: communications are severed, Type 3s vanish into their identities, everyone else finds someone to be and waits for pre-determined signals. No traces, everyone vanishes."

"So we're going to vanish?"

"Nope. It's pure coincidence that you happened to be doing your final assessment in the area, but protocol is clear. You are the nearest Type 2, and that means you've just gone active to try and solve this mess."

"Active?"

"That's right - active. Don't worry, you were doing fine. Your approach was interesting, your attack from a blind angle that nobody would have imagined. You realized a direct change would be tricky, and worked out the perfect spot to make a switch with the perfect candidate to cause a little trouble. So far, you're a pass. It's just that now, you're going to have to pass for real."

You gulp down your nerves. Your own body, with its strangely bland face, stares at you from the car's side mirror. You watch as the traffic passes and Elena negotiates bend after bend. Your stomach churns with nerves.

"Here's the situation. Someone in Chicago was rumbled in an op. A Type 1 was called, and immediately the situation was sanitized." That's a polite way for saying that whatever happened wouldn't be making the news. You wonder if the Type 1 killed anybody, or if a mind-wipe was in order. Either way, something drastic happened. "We caught almost all of it. But there's been a complication, so we need you to go in and replace someone. Her name is Samantha Reston. Make sure you've taken her place within the next half-hour. Once you're her, you call me on this number. I'll give you further instructions. The security password is 'weather report'. I will respond with 'chance of thunder'. I checked; it's clear skies all day locally, so nobody else should ask. I'll explain more then."

You're a little baffled by this whole development; it's so sudden, and a lot of responsibility seems to lie on your shoulders. You also wonder why, if it's so critical, Elena would be tasking you with it. Maybe this is another test? The real test, designed to haze you and see how you react under pressure? It's possible. Either way, you have to move quickly.

"Why aren't you doing this?"

Elena pulls the car over, slowly down as she parks up at the kerb. "Because this is a Type 2 job. I'm Type 1, and that means I kick ass. You're the specialist in subterfuge. So do what you do best. Find yourself a new face, get in there, and become Sam Reston."

You climb out of the cab, pens in your pocket, and the car speeds off. It's only then you look across the road toward your target. It's not what you expected at all.

"Crap," you say.

You're about to infiltrate...