Feel the heavy march of boots through the walls of my prison. Hateful blindness—the inability to touch their heat or smell their presence. Resist the urge to reach out, to quest for more information, to press against the cold, unyielding surface for the faintest signs of life. I know they watch me even as the footfalls stop and the silence digs in. The glass restricts me, but to them, I am naked and exposed. They must feel so smug with their eyes and their freedom. I hate them.

“Dora, we’re going to open the door now. Please remain calm.”

Calm? They expect me to be calm? Of course they do. The monster must behave herself if she wants to stay a pet. I lie still and obedient as the doors hiss open and the air rushes in. Only willpower keeps me in my little glass nest of claustrophobia as sensation rides this artificial breeze. Willpower and self-preservation. I can’t succumb to the smells of life and freedom. Rebellion is a poor shield against bullets.

“Alright, you can come out now.”

Memory is sluggish; I barely remember how to move. Acting more from instinct than skill, I grip the sides of the opening and drag myself from sterile glass to dirty metal floor. I long to savor the sensation of open space, but I know my captors are impatient. So am I. Skills and recollections from a 48-hour eternity ago trickle to the forefront of my mind. I twist my roots, my thin wooden tentacles, and knot them into larger limbs. Testing my four new legs, I raise my core from the ground and take a few clumsy steps. It’ll do.

“Are you ready?”

Does he think I’ll answer? My tattered pride doesn’t need to hear my ugly excuse for a voice. If he can’t tell I’m ready from how I’m standing, then he won’t get any sympathy from me. Must be a new guy; he positively reeks of naivety. Who hires these clowns anyway?

“Well…Um…Please follow me.”

I allow them to escort me out of the large room (affectionately known as “the garage”) and through a carpeted hallway. In spite of myself, I enjoy a grudging affection for this building. Inhabited by us transients for barely a week, it still manages to feel like home. It certainly smells lived in; someone needs to take out the trash.

“Hey there, match girl! Going out for a walk?”

Speaking of trash, Jerry Filch is being his usual obnoxious self, the dirty rat. His latest insult is almost clever—calling the thin wooden arsonist a ‘match.’ Sounds like someone needs to teach him about manners and proper behavior. Note to self: pay Jerry back with a little ‘sensitivity training’ when I get the chance. I entertain visions of savagely plucking his whiskers one by one.

My violent fantasies come to a halt as we enter the warmth of my boss’s office. I try to picture how it must look, but I nearly run into his desk anyway. Snarling inwardly at thoughtless morons who didn’t warn me, I feel my way to what is probably the correct side of the desk and wait for the boss to come in.

“Hello, Ms. Tanglechild.”

Yikes! No one should be that quiet. Not that I have any excuse for shock; he might look like a kindly grandpa, but our boss is one of the sneakiest and most frightening men I have ever met. Half the time I’m convinced his limp is just for show. And now he’s probably appraising me with those horribly perceptive eyes of his. Words cannot express the trouble I’m in.

“Thank you for your services, gentlemen. You may go now.” And with those innocent words, I’m the lamb all alone with the wolf. “I suspect you’re wondering what horrible punishments I have planned for you.” It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out. “In that regard, I am pleased to put your fears to rest. We have apprehended the real culprit, a rather mischievous little fire sprite, and your name is now cleared.”

For the first time today, I am glad I have no face. Does he actually think that?

“Now that this matter has been resolved, I’m sure you are eager to have your personal effects returned to you.” I hear the gentle scratching sound of an opening cardboard box. The familiar scents of purple and ivory greet me like a long lost lover. Forgetting everything, I lung forward and yank the box off the desk. My eager tendrils snatch up my most precious possession, my prized amplifier. The box falls, its status insignificant, as I cradle and caress the semispherical piece of bone that makes me more than complete. Every crack, every hole and etching in it its surface is more personal and intimate than all the tentacles of my body.

Cradling it against the nexus that connects all my limbs, I wrap the whole affair with a thick mass of roots. As I form my new shape, I feed the wisp of color that is my meager Gift into the amplifier. For a moment, I droop, everything that makes me magical drained from my limp form. And then it surges through me, charging every cell of my being with the pure, unadulterated vibrancy that is magic in the truest sense of the word. It makes me alive. It makes me whole. There is nothing more beautiful in this world.

But nothing good lasts forever. All too soon, my capacity adjusts, and the thrill dwindles to a mere buzz. I’m no radiant creature of beauty. I’m just an overgrown plant with a messed-up past and a boatload of problems. And a slightly enhanced magical talent. Enough to finish building myself. Let’s get this over with.

It’s painful to move the flow of my Gift through my body, and the shrill grating of my voice is only slightly more bearable, but the symbols have to be traced and recited if I want this to work. And I do want this to work.

First comes the vision spell. Color becomes more than a feeling or a smell; it grows in importance as a sense of its own. No longer do I have to guess the location of the desk or the size of the room. Wherever I shift my invisible gaze, objects and textures jump into view. I can see.

The boss has a mirror on his desk. How thoughtful. Though if he were truly considerate, he would look away as I unwind and reshape my limbs. I examine myself critically, catching and correcting flaws until at last my shape is humanoid, graceful, and undeniably feminine. My clothes are in the box I discarded earlier. Forcing myself not to hurry, I slip into my green, short-sleeve trench coat. Last comes my namesake, the green fedora with a purple band, which I settle over the spikes of my “hair.”

All right, no more putting it off. It’s time to work more magic. A little more pain and discomfort, and my voice is now soft, rich, and articulate, a singer’s voice. I’m tempted to test it, but I’m fed up with performing for an audience today. The last and hardest trick requires another use of the mirror. The purple of my magic fragments briefly, and two luminous eyes stare back at me from the reflection of my head. They’re only illusions, but they’re expressive and they make me appear less like a monster, even if they are violet with black instead of white.

And now, fully dressed, I am ready to look straight at my boss. “You locked me up.” Accusation practically drips from my voice.

“Ms. Tanglechild, you have to understand. We were merely following proper procedure.”

“It is procedure to imprison your team members and threaten them with violence?”

“It is when they possess a colorful past.”

“Those are all baseless rumors!”

“You have someone’s skull in your chest!”

“I needed it more!”

I rarely catch the great Theodore Reynolds at a loss for words. Regaining his composure, he tries again. “Ms. Tanglechild, the fact remains that you were present at the incident. In addition, I have it from reliable sources that you exhibit a certain enthusiasm when it comes to pyrotechnic displays. Though I admit the evidence was circumstantial, I believe…”

The phone rings. With a gesture of apology, he ushers me out the door. I could try and eavesdrop…hold that thought. Was that crate in this hallway before? As if to further tempt me, the label reads, “Caution: dangerous materials.”  I don’t stop to think; I merely act. No lock means it’s their fault that I’m taking a peek anyway.

There may be several objects in that box, but for me, there might as well be one. The axe entices me with the aroma of a newborn inferno. To grasp the curved wooden handle is to feel the tender caress of a glorious flame. The red-painted head becomes a broad chopping blade at one end and a narrow spike at the other. A jagged grin splits the blade and leads below malevolent eyes carved into its side. The effect is both wicked and seductive.

With a start, I realize I can no longer hear the voice of Mr. Reynolds through the door. I swiftly shut the crate and stuff the axe into my coat. Controlling the trembling takes a few more seconds, and then the door opens to expose me. Does he know? Can he tell? I try to stand normally.

“Please come in, Ms. Tanglechild. Have a seat.” Following his own instructions, he slumps into his own chair and rests his face upon his hands. It dawns on me that he really is old.

Finally, he looks up at me. “It occurs to me that we never truly got to know each other. Do you mind if I call you Fedora? No? Well, Fedora, it is my regret to inform you that we are leaving.

The higher ups have come to the conclusion that this tenth base is too impractical.”

“Where are they sending the team?”

“Actually, ‘the team’ will not be going anywhere. We are disbanded, effective immediately. There have been too many incidents—too many mistakes. I myself have been asked to step down from an active role in this company.”

If I had a jaw, it would be hanging to the floor right now.

“What will happen to me?”

“Ever the mercenary,” he says with a chuckle and a sigh. “Never fear, your employment remains in full effect. In fact, you already have a mission: a little matter of peacekeeping in Prague. Now where did I put that…Aha! Take this; it will act as both a passport and a voucher for transportation and expenses. I’ll have Nicolas take you to the airport. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have some packing to do.”

I am numb as I walk out the door for the second time. I can’t believe my good fortune. Not only am I free of my buffoonish coworkers, but also by the time my ex-boss finds out how that fire sprite got loose, thousands of miles will already separate us. A cheerful spring livens my steps out of the building and into Nick’s car.

A paper is sticking out of my new passport. Unfolded, it reads, “Good luck to you on your mission. I hope you enjoy your new toy.

“P.S. Next time, be more careful with the fire sprite.”

I can’t decide if I hate that man. I can barely think at all.